Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
“No way. You bought all this crap, and I promised to make you my enchiladas.”
“Are you sure?” I flick a glance toward the hallway that Leo disappeared down before he slammed the door.
“He’s in a mood. Ignore him. He’s probably hangry.”
“Is he always hangry?” I ask, making Sol snort a laugh. I can’t help but smile. Sol has one of those laughs that’s contagious and is always quick to get a smile from me.
I’d been drawn to her since she plopped down in the chair next to mine in our Sociology course at NYU three months ago and offered me some gummy bears. I’d been drowning in the grief of losing both of my parents two months prior.
She helped clear some of the fog I was living in. She was refreshing and so unlike all my other friends I’d gone to boarding school with. It was so easy to be friends with her. She’s the most real and closest friend I’ve ever had. She also gives killer hugs. I know that might sound stupid to some people, but I swear they can work wonders.
“Did you see how big he is? He needs a lot of food.”
“I think everyone sees how big he is.” I laugh.
Leo is hard to miss. The man is made up of pure muscle and well over six foot tall. I’m barely five foot three. I have no clue how I ended up so short. My mother had legs for days. She was a runway model when she was my age. Until my father plucked her off that runway.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why he’s been so moody lately. I swear he’s not always like this.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if it’s only when I’m around. Because there hasn’t been a single time that he’s been in a good mood in my presence. I told myself I would stop caring, but that hasn’t worked out for me.
“It’s fine.” I give her a reassuring smile. “Can I help?” I offer.
“No, sit here.” She points to one of the two chairs at the breakfast bar. There is no dining room, so we eat here most of the time when I’m here or on the sofa. I’m here more often than not, preferring it over my place, which Sol doesn’t understand.
My brownstone townhouse is five stories and almost six thousand square feet. It’s a whole lot of lonely and filled with reminders of my parents. I don’t have a million memories in the home. I went to boarding school, and in the summers, we were always somewhere outside of the States. Still, the place is all them. I haven't changed anything since they passed.
“All right.” I put my hands up. “I won’t help cook.” I can’t fault her for not wanting my help. I can barely make toast without burning it.
“That was the deal. I cook to cheer you up, but you’re supposed to tell me why you’ve been all mopey.” She preheats the oven before she starts pulling out the things she needs.
“I got a call from Grant today.” The second I say his name, Sol does a dramatic eye roll. She’s not a fan of his, and I can’t say that I blame her.
Grant was always my father’s right-hand man. They even owned a few businesses together and I think a couple of properties. Grant is supposedly one of the best financial planners in the city. He’s in high demand. People beg him to manage their money. I guess I am lucky that I have him because I don’t know crap about investing or managing my assets.
When my father’s lawyer, Mr. Edwards, started to lay out the contents of my parents’ will and everything that I was now the owner of, my head wanted to explode. The whole Grayson Trust was mine. There was so much crap. I was overwhelmed with it all.
My father even owned two minor league baseball teams. I’d never known him to watch any kind of sports or go to a game. It goes to show you how little I really knew about him. It’s not as though he ever talked to me about his work, either. It was his mindset that women had no need to know those things.
“What did that little nerd want?” I burst into laughter. I love how straightforward Sol can be about crap. I hope in time some of that will rub off on me.
“Me,” I finally say. Sol stops chopping the tomato.
“I fucking told you! When he showed up that afternoon I was at your home, I saw it all over his face. Gross.” She fakes a gag. “He’s old enough to be your father.”
I suppose he is, but he’s not my father’s age. My father had me when he was in his early forties. The age gap between Grant and me is actually the same as it was between my parents, now that I think about it.