Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
While grinning about my adorable three-year-old godson, I move for the window to block out the smoke lingering in the air. My smile is switched to a frown when I discover the cause of the smoke. Caleb is standing on my balcony, smoking a cigarette. He has an etched crystal glass in his hand, and his elbows are balanced on his knees since his height makes my outdoor sofa look like doll house furniture.
Although I am ecstatic he waited up for me, I am also concerned about the whiskey glass he’s holding. The liquid inside is clear, but so is vodka, which I always store in my freezer in case of emergencies.
If my stomps down the hallway don’t alert Caleb that I am home, the creaky hinges on the patio door will. They squeal when I yank it open, screaming as loudly as the thuds of my heart in my ears when his bloodshot eyes lock with mine.
“Hey.” It is a pathetic greeting for how hard my heart is thumping, but a greeting, nonetheless. “What are you doing out here?”
He notches his head to his cigarette before taking a final drawl and flicking the bud over the balcony railing. My skyrocketing concern gets a breather when he mutters, “Your return took longer than expected.”
“There was an accident not long after I messaged you.” I can’t hide my smile when his eyes zoom around my body, seeking any signs of damage. “I wasn’t involved. I just got stuck in the gridlock between exit ramps.” With a sigh, I slump into the seat next to him before dropping my eyes to his glass. “Mind if I have a sip? My throat is burning with dryness.”
My worry lessens when he hands me the glass without a second thought, and it is completely obliterated when the smooth coolness of the liquid doesn’t offer any type of afterburn.
He is drinking water.
I realize I need to learn how to control my emotions better when Caleb mutters, “It was tempting.”
“I’m sure it was,” I agree before handing the glass back to him. “Today was a big day.” I nudge my head to my patio door like Octavia is standing behind it. “How is Tivy?”
His eyes follow the direction of my head nudge before replying, “Good. She’s sleeping.”
They drift down to me when I ask, “And you? How are you?”
It takes him a little longer to answer this time around. “I’m okay.”
After curling my legs underneath myself, I twist my torso to face him before resting my cheek on the back of the sofa. “You look tired.”
His laugh isn’t genuine, but I’d rather it than the bleak, lost look in his eyes. “I am. Can’t sleep, though.”
“Is that why you came here?” When he peers at me, blinking and confused, I add, “So you can sleep? Because Tivy snores like a freight train.”
I don’t know whether to be happy or worried when he shakes his head. He’s so quiet today, so reserved, and I hate it more than the pang of guilt I felt when I left with my father instead of going home with him and Tivy, where I felt like I belonged more than at my father’s side.
That is wrong of me to admit. My father helped Jack more than anyone today, but I wanted to forget that when it came to choosing to thank him for his help and guiding Caleb through the latest turmoil upsetting his family.
When Caleb’s confession brings on a prolonged bout of silence, I let him mull for a little before nudging my head inside. “Do you want to give it a whirl?” I tilt my head to hide my smile when lust flares through his eyes. Now is not the time for my libido to talk. “You’re tired, and I can barely keep my eyelids open, so maybe we should try and get some sleep.”
Not one to take no for an answer when it is in the person’s best interest, I stand from the sofa, pretend to pluck Caleb from his seat, then guide him into my bedroom. I say ‘pretend’ because I wouldn’t be able to budge him if he didn’t want to come with me. He’s standing at the foot of my bed because he wants to be here. He’s just confused as to why that is.
He hasn’t learned yet that home isn’t about your possessions or zip code. It is about the people inside and the safety they represent.
I want to be that safe place for him.
“Dump them on the floor,” I murmur when he grabs the pillows that always landed on the floor anytime we fooled around in here. “They’re just for looks. They serve no purpose.”
I slip between the sheets then fake an interest in a speckle of dust floating in the air when Caleb toes off his shoes before yanking his jeans down his thighs. When the mattress dips, I shift my focus back to him. I almost giggle when I realize how stiff and robotic he seems, but then I remember all the tidbits of information I’ve learned about him the past week, not to mention the past three years, and my humor is replaced with nurturing.