Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“You’re aiming to sell the place?”
Caleb shrugs. “Not sure yet. I haven’t been back here in over fifteen years, ever since my grandpa moved away and turned the cabin into a short-term rental. Once I see the place again, I’ll have a better idea about what needs to be done, and if I want to keep it or sell it.”
“Is that where you’ll be staying while you’re in town?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, I had a service go in there and clean it for me this morning, so I’m good to go.”
“You said you inherited it?” Mom asks tentatively.
A look of deep sadness flickers across Caleb’s face. “From my mother, about three months ago. She got the place when my grandpa died a couple years ago, but unfortunately she never made it up here to see the place again.”
We all express our condolences, and Caleb thanks us and takes a long guzzle from his water, like he’s throwing back a tall whiskey. I noticed Caleb turned down a cold beer earlier when offered one, and that surprised me. Normally, a person turning down a beer doesn’t register with me. Who cares? But the online version of C-Bomb I’ve studied relentlessly over the years seems like the kind of guy who’d never turn down a beer.
After supporting Claudia on her sobriety journey, I have a sixth sense about people turning down alcohol—when it feels meaningful and when it doesn’t. And in this instance, it felt meaningful. Like Caleb very much wanted to say yes to that drink, but he forced himself to refuse it.
My eyes rake over Caleb’s large, tattooed hand wrapped around his water glass; and my mind conjures to the vision of that hand gripping Claudia’s hip as he fucked her from behind. I can’t believe this famous man’s dick was inside my best friend, right after he’d played a sold-out show in Seattle . . . and that now, he’s sitting at my parents’ dinner table in Prairie Springs, eating my mother’s famous chicken pot pie. It’s boggling my mind to try to reconcile the peacock of a man I’ve seen online with the quiet, understated man sitting across from me.
Dad’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “If you want to FaceTime me in the light of day tomorrow and show me around the cabin, I’d be more than happy to give you my professional opinion about what upgrades and fixes the place might need.”
“I’ll definitely take you up on that,” Caleb says. “Thanks. I worked construction myself in my teens, and I’ve always enjoyed working with my hands. Depending on your advice, maybe I’ll tackle some of the projects on my own, since I’m gonna be stu—While I’m here.”
Stuck here. That’s what he was going to say. While I’m gonna be stuck here, anyway.
I exchange another look with my mother. One that says, “I don’t like him.”
“Aubrey will be a good pair of eyes, too,” Dad says, oblivious to the nonverbal exchange happening between Mom and me. “She used to work for me during summers in high school, and she’s always had a great eye.”
I pat Dad’s hand on the table. “Don’t oversell me. I know how to use power tools and follow your explicit instructions to a T, and that’s about it.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Short Cake,” Dad replies. “By the end of every summer, you were better at supervising projects than my best project managers.”
Caleb smiles at me. “A woman of many talents.”
Once again, my body jolts at Caleb’s eye contact, the same way it did when Caleb looked at me while counting himself a fan of “forbidden fruit.”
Mom looks between Caleb and me. “Aubrey, honey, will you help me clear the dishes?”
“Let me do it,” Caleb says, rising from his chair.
“No, no. You’re our guest. If you want a job, keep Joe company, since he’s stuck there.”
I smirk. I’m not sure if Mom purposefully used the word “stuck” to let Caleb know she knows he stopped himself from using that exact word a moment ago in relation to himself; but if so, I’m deeply impressed by her subtle sassiness.
Without daring to look in Caleb’s direction, I grab all the plates off the table, while Mom grabs the serving platters, and with items in hand, we both quickly scamper into the kitchen.
The minute we’re out of earshot of the men, Mom whispers, “Stop flirting with him, Aubrey.”
“What?” I gasp out.
“You heard me. It won’t end well for us, if you keep doing that. So, don’t.”
“I’m . . . Mom, I haven’t been flirting. If anyone’s been doing that, it’s him.”
Mom looks unconvinced. “You might think it’ll help our cause for you to cozy up to him. But when he inevitably loses interest, then what? We’ll be screwed.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not even remotely attracted to him. And even if I were, which I’m not, I wouldn’t act on it. Give me some credit.”