Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
My smile is genuine. “Martin, I like you, but—”
“Don’t upset him, El.” Jeff, Martin’s husband, comes out from the back and joins him at the register. “He’s still sensitive.”
“I’m not sensitive. I’m offended.” He looks at the man standing at my side. “Whatever she told you, it’s a lie.”
“I haven’t told him anything.” I look up, and eyes that now seem more green than blue under the fluorescent lights meet mine. “He tried to kill me.” That gets me a brow raise.
“You did not just tell him that,” Martin whispers, horrified.
“Is it not true?” I ask, looking back at him and trying not to smile.
“How was I to know you have a peanut allergy?”
“Who puts peanuts in vegetable soup?”
“They’re a vegetable.”
“They are not. I don’t care what Google says.” I laugh when he rolls his eyes. “If Jeff made the soup, I’ll take the special and a fountain drink.”
“You just love pissing him off, don’t you?” Jeff laughs, and Martin lets out a huff, then looks at Roman.
“What about you? What are you having?”
“I’ll have the same as her.”
“Sounds good. Find a seat, and we’ll bring your food out.” Jeff passes two reusable cups over to us, and we walk to the fountain machine.
“Elora.”
“Pardon?”
I look up at Roman as I fill my cup with Diet Coke. “My name’s Elora. Everyone calls me Elora except for Martin and Jeff. I don’t know why they call me El.”
Faltering under his blank stare, I turn and walk to a small table and take a seat. He folds into the chair across from mine while I take off my coat and look out the window. The town is quiet today. Then again, it’s a weekday, so things are usually slow until Friday, when everyone shows up to spend time at the beach, no matter if it’s freezing or even pouring rain.
“Did you grow up here?” he asks, and I turn to him.
“No, I grew up in a small town in Wyoming.” I pick up my drink to take a sip. “You?” After confirming he's Roman, I already know the answer, so I’m not surprised when he responds.
“Manhattan.”
“It must have been interesting to grow up there.”
“You could say that,” he mutters, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Why are you here in Oregon?”
“I work here.”
“But you don’t live here. You live at the hotel like a guest just passing through town.”
“Why are you here?” I shoot back. The way he’s positioned with his arms crossed lets me know he might be willing to ask me things about myself, but he probably won’t be open to responding truthfully if I return the favor.
Glancing out the window, he shakes his head, then answers with an honesty that surprises me. “I don’t fucking know.”
3
ROMAN
43.0760° N, 107.2903° W
The bar is just as busy as it was last night when I was here. The sound of laughter, quiet conversations, and music from the overhead speakers fill the air with an annoying buzz. I’m not drinking tonight or any night for the foreseeable future, so I can’t drown out the noise in the room with alcohol. Looking toward the window and the darkness beyond, I catch Elora’s reflection in the glass when she passes by a table close to mine, and I turn to watch her.
She reminds me of a hummingbird, going quickly from one flower to another, never stopping, never allowing anyone more than a glimpse before she’s gone.
Lifting her arms, she takes the clip out of her hair—which is fighting between red and blonde, curly and straight—it falls just below her shoulder blades before she gathers it all back up and puts the clip back in place. When one of the guys sitting at the bar says something to her, she smiles. I know from being with her earlier this evening that she’s only half committed to the action. When she really smiles, she has a deep dimple in her right cheek that I’ve only seen once, even though I’ve caught her smiling a dozen times just since I’ve been sitting here.
Why the fuck am I sitting here? I should head up to my room. Better yet, I should get back in my car and continue fucking driving until I can’t anymore.
“You’re back.”
I drag my eyes off Elora and look at the brunette who slides into the chair across from mine. I might have been wasted last night, but I still remember her and the way the tone of her voice felt like nails on a chalkboard inside my skull.
“You’re not drinking tonight?” She looks at the water on the table in front of me.
“No.”
“I don’t blame you.” She laughs. “You were really out of it last night.”
That’s an understatement. I haven’t been that drunk in years, probably since I first discovered alcohol, and had no idea what my limit was. Last night, I went overboard—something I never do. I don’t like losing control, but I needed to escape my own thoughts.