image.
I watched him from the
corner of my eye, his worry catching. But to Stephen I flung the
words “You’re mistaken.”
He shrugged. “I saw you talking to Reed,
too.”
I felt caught, as if he’d
seen me doing something bad. It wasn’t like that, but I’d be damned
before I explained myself to anyone. “Fine, Stephen. You’re on to
me. But you’re going to cover my shift on Friday, and if you tell
Francesca that Reed was in town then I’m going to make sure she
finds out that you still wet the bed.”
“ I don’t wet the bed,” he
replied, a bit confused. Obviously he
had never been blackmailed before .
“ It doesn’t matter,
Francesca will think you do.”
“Fine,” he said, looking very disappointed
with me.
I had to resist the urge
not to make him go away. It was on the tip of my tongue, go clean something . But Smith was already frothing from our argument; he hated
when I was anything less than lovely to his precious boy. What I
hated was when his precious
boy turned things around, taking on
the adult role while I appeared immature and childish by
comparison.
So yeah, that was my Monday...
Chapter 8
I did nothing but wait for
the rest of the week. I waited for Friday afternoon, the SL&S
picnic. And I waited for Friday evening, when Lucas was due back.
In the meantime I didn’t read Demidov’s diary—it was just a little
too disturbing. I still wanted to know the rest of his story, but
when I took a hiatus from the book the nightmares went away, and I
didn’t miss them.
Francesca called every day
while I was working behind the front desk, continually pestering
me, but mostly encouraging me to tear apart Luke’s house while I
still had the chance. I should have confided about the picture, but
I didn’t. And Stephen, he was suspicious of me, but not
distrustful. He maintained that I was up to something, but didn’t
push the topic.
When Friday finally did
roll around I woke up in Luke’s bed, used his shower, and then
tidied up a bit. Having lived with my brothers, I knew how filthy
men could be. But Lucas wasn’t bad, no reeking socks or crusted
dishes. He was neat, to the point of being stark. A real
minimalist, only keeping what he used and nothing more, not even a
spare spatula. I’d seen him wipe off his counters and sweep the
floor, but I sort of liked doing it for him. I liked making his
home feel like mine. I liked leaving my mark. So I gave everything
a going over before I climbed the fence to my place.
I found no sign of Smith
there. I called out, but he didn’t appear, so I gave up and got
ready. Donning jean shorts and T-shirt I kept it simple, braiding
my hair to the side before lathering on some mascara. I knew from
every romance novel I had ever read that beautiful women were
supposed to have naturally long, curling dark lashes, even if their
hair was blonde. Well, I must be part albino, because my lashes
were not any of those things and I needed a bit of help in that
department. But other than that my morning routine, or toilet
(something else I’d learned from my romance novels), was very
simple, which I knew for certain after spending hours watching
Francesca primp on numerous occasions.
I left the house, not
bothering to lock it, and started my car. It felt like CPR every
time, forcing the dead Chevy back to life. I never locked my car
either, because if someone was stupid enough to try and steal it,
they’d never manage. You had to pump the gas pedal just right and
sometimes, when the weather was cold, flood it, before it’d turn
over. Even Lucas, the car genius, had trouble with it. Lucas. I was
nervy to see him, the anticipation sort of eating away at my
middle. But I had a feeling about the picnic. There were answers
there, Smith’s answers, and I’d just have to endure it to get them.
So saying, I drove for the F. J. Torras Causeway, leaving the
island behind as I sped towards Brunswick.
* * *
Southeastern Logging and
Sawmill was a
I watched him from the
corner of my eye, his worry catching. But to Stephen I flung the
words “You’re mistaken.”
He shrugged. “I saw you talking to Reed,
too.”
I felt caught, as if he’d
seen me doing something bad. It wasn’t like that, but I’d be damned
before I explained myself to anyone. “Fine, Stephen. You’re on to
me. But you’re going to cover my shift on Friday, and if you tell
Francesca that Reed was in town then I’m going to make sure she
finds out that you still wet the bed.”
“ I don’t wet the bed,” he
replied, a bit confused. Obviously he
had never been blackmailed before .
“ It doesn’t matter,
Francesca will think you do.”
“Fine,” he said, looking very disappointed
with me.
I had to resist the urge
not to make him go away. It was on the tip of my tongue, go clean something . But Smith was already frothing from our argument; he hated
when I was anything less than lovely to his precious boy. What I
hated was when his precious
boy turned things around, taking on
the adult role while I appeared immature and childish by
comparison.
So yeah, that was my Monday...
Chapter 8
I did nothing but wait for
the rest of the week. I waited for Friday afternoon, the SL&S
picnic. And I waited for Friday evening, when Lucas was due back.
In the meantime I didn’t read Demidov’s diary—it was just a little
too disturbing. I still wanted to know the rest of his story, but
when I took a hiatus from the book the nightmares went away, and I
didn’t miss them.
Francesca called every day
while I was working behind the front desk, continually pestering
me, but mostly encouraging me to tear apart Luke’s house while I
still had the chance. I should have confided about the picture, but
I didn’t. And Stephen, he was suspicious of me, but not
distrustful. He maintained that I was up to something, but didn’t
push the topic.
When Friday finally did
roll around I woke up in Luke’s bed, used his shower, and then
tidied up a bit. Having lived with my brothers, I knew how filthy
men could be. But Lucas wasn’t bad, no reeking socks or crusted
dishes. He was neat, to the point of being stark. A real
minimalist, only keeping what he used and nothing more, not even a
spare spatula. I’d seen him wipe off his counters and sweep the
floor, but I sort of liked doing it for him. I liked making his
home feel like mine. I liked leaving my mark. So I gave everything
a going over before I climbed the fence to my place.
I found no sign of Smith
there. I called out, but he didn’t appear, so I gave up and got
ready. Donning jean shorts and T-shirt I kept it simple, braiding
my hair to the side before lathering on some mascara. I knew from
every romance novel I had ever read that beautiful women were
supposed to have naturally long, curling dark lashes, even if their
hair was blonde. Well, I must be part albino, because my lashes
were not any of those things and I needed a bit of help in that
department. But other than that my morning routine, or toilet
(something else I’d learned from my romance novels), was very
simple, which I knew for certain after spending hours watching
Francesca primp on numerous occasions.
I left the house, not
bothering to lock it, and started my car. It felt like CPR every
time, forcing the dead Chevy back to life. I never locked my car
either, because if someone was stupid enough to try and steal it,
they’d never manage. You had to pump the gas pedal just right and
sometimes, when the weather was cold, flood it, before it’d turn
over. Even Lucas, the car genius, had trouble with it. Lucas. I was
nervy to see him, the anticipation sort of eating away at my
middle. But I had a feeling about the picnic. There were answers
there, Smith’s answers, and I’d just have to endure it to get them.
So saying, I drove for the F. J. Torras Causeway, leaving the
island behind as I sped towards Brunswick.
* * *
Southeastern Logging and
Sawmill was a
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