Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
But I do miss Lillian. We haven’t been able to talk much since I’ve been here, but I’ve managed to keep her updated on most of the highlights.
“I know,” I reply and decide to utilize the time to stretch out my muscles. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately, but I got a job.” The first stretch I attempt is a hamstring stretch on my right thigh. It burns as much as my fear of losing said job because I acted like a violent-horny fool Friday night.
“A job, huh? Not going to lie, I’m happy for you, but I’m also kind of disappointed,” she answers on a little laugh. “Obviously, I want the best for you, but there was a part of me that hoped you’d have to come back to New York.”
“You and I both know that’s not an option.”
“Yeah, well, a girl who misses her bestie can dream, you know?”
One thing I’ve always loved about Lillian is that she’s amusing to watch in conversation because she’s so theatrical. I can picture her now, flashing some sort of jazz hand or drawing a bubble above her head with a finger.
“I know, Lil. I’m sorry, but I can’t come back. Eleanor already called my sister’s coffee shop looking for me, and that freaked me out enough.”
“I can’t believe she has the balls she does, but she’s been trying to track me down too.”
“Eleanor has never been lacking in ego.” I spread my legs and lean forward to touch my toes. “And she knows about Thomas coming to Red Bridge, so she’s going to be a dog with a bone until she gets what she wants.”
“Oh shit. Now the demon-dials are making more sense.”
“Yeah.” A sad exhale of air leaves my lungs as I stand upright again. “Have you talked to her?”
“Hell no,” Lillian replies like I just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “I don’t care if she shows up at my office with one of those singing telegrams. I don’t owe her anything, and you don’t owe her anything either.”
“Have you…uh…heard anything about Thomas?”
“I saw an article about him in the paper a few days ago. Just some boring coverage of that charity his family owns. They hosted some kind of event at the Met, and I honestly can’t even tell you the details because who cares about that asshole,” she rambles. “I mean, screw that guy. I still can’t believe he showed up in Vermont and tried to physically force you to talk to him. Like, he manhandled you, Norah. He was abusive. I wish you’d put him in the clink. He deserves to have a shiv or two rammed up his ass by strangers.”
Obviously, Lillian knows all about The Red Bridge Scuffle. She didn’t take it too well the first time I told her. It was a day or two after it happened, and it took some effort to convince her that showing up at his apartment with a baseball bat was a really bad idea.
“Let’s not get too worked up over this again, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” She groans. “I know why you didn’t press charges—sort of. But that asshole should be sitting in a cell, rotting.”
She isn’t the only one who feels that way—for as gentle as she’s been with me, Josie’s made her opinion abundantly clear.
“Oh!” Lillian exclaims. “But one thing that’s kind of good news is that in that dumb article I read, he had a date with him at that event. She’s a French supermodel or something. She barely looked eighteen, but that probably shouldn’t be a surprise, you know? Thomas King has a thing for barely legal. But maybe that means he’s moving on and won’t be bothered with you anymore.”
A thing for barely legal. Ugh. It’s moments like this that make me wonder how in the hell I could’ve been so naïve about that man.
“Anyway, enough about your asshole ex. Tell me more about this job.”
“I’m an artist’s assistant,” I tell her. “And it actually pays really well. Thank God. The arrival of your moving truck really ramped up my sister’s impatience with my squatting. I need to find a place of my own soon.”
“Wait…” She pauses. “An artist’s assistant? Who is the artist? Don’t tell me you have someone famous hiding in that tiny town up there.”
“Um…” I mash my lips together and pop them open with uncertainty.
“Norah, I swear to baby Jesus, if you’re keeping something from me…”
I sigh. “The artist is Bennett Bishop.”
“Bennett Bishop, as in the broody, rude-y, grumpy-ass macho man who punched Thomas and kissed you in a grocery store parking lot?”
“That’s the one.” I sigh again, mulling over whether I should give her the latest updates. Unfortunately for me, she sniffs out my hesitancy like a dog.
“Why do I get the sense there’s more to this story?”