Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“You’re definitely more excited about this than getting out of jail.”
“I owe you a big one.” Okay, why does that sound filthy too? I’m tired. That’s it. I’m just tired. In the meantime, heat spreads all the way down my neck.
“You don’t owe me anything.” He yawns, seemingly oblivious to my clumsy innuendo. Thank God his mind is not the cesspool mine is. I watch him rake his long fingers through his hair, which musses it up even more, which makes him look even sexier than he did a minute ago, which makes me glower. This is becoming a vicious cycle.
“Anyway, thanks. I’ll let you get back to it. Sleep that is––or not. Whatever it was that you were doing.”
He frowns, confused at my change of pace and tight voice. I can’t fault him. I’m confused, too. Confused as to why I would have this kind of reaction to this particular guy. In my line of work I see one pretty face after another and none have ever affected me like this. Or is it infected? Whatever. They’re one and the same as far as I’m concerned. I’m about to close his door but his voice stops me.
“How’d you get home?”
“Cab. But I usually take the subway.”
He suddenly perks up, the sleepy look in his eye clearing. His lips thin. “That’s dangerous.”
“I’ve been doing it for six years. Hasn’t gotten more dangerous as of today.”
He stares. No blinking. I’m not even sure he’s breathing. “Use my car service. I’ll have them wait outside for you.”
What? Wait, what? “Mmmthank you, but that’s not necessary.”
“It is if I want to get any sleep.” He runs a harried hand through his hair and presses his thumb and index finger over his closed eyes. “You work Tuesday to Saturday. It’ll be outside waiting.”
Not a chance in hell am I doing that. However, I’m all too familiar with the fact that arguing with him is pointless.
“It’s late. I’ll let you get back to sleep. Thanks again,” I say quickly, hooking a thumb toward my room. Before he can respond, I duck out.
Chapter Eight
“Hi, Marco. How is she?” I say to the young man walking toward me, the physician’s assistant assigned to help care for my grandmother. Sleeves of tattoos, piercing through his eyebrow and God knows where else. In other words, hot as bawls. I wouldn’t mind moving in here and having Marco assist me. He shakes his head, his demeanor serious. And the small amount of joy I was feeling drains out of me in an instant.
“Not a good day. She threw her oatmeal at Ethel this morning.” Ethel, the woman my grandmother shares a suite with.
My spirits sink to the bottom of the crapper. “I’m sorry––I don’t know what else to say.”
“No need to apologize. It’s the disease. Can’t do nothing about it other than be patient.” Seeing the demoralized look on my face, he continues. “She’ll be happy to see you.”
All I can do is nod and hope he’s right. Because I don’t know what I’ll do if she starts throwing things at me. Nine years ago my grandmother was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. It seemed to be progressing at a slow pace until six months ago when slow unfortunately turned into rapid.
I knock on my grandmother’s door and enter. The room is bright and tidy, the care at this facility exceptional. Which is why we all agreed that she would live the rest of her life here. My grandmother picked this place herself.
Turning away from the window, she stares back with a soft smile and a vacant look in her eyes. And I know––I immediately know she doesn’t have a clue who I am.
“May I help you?”
“It’s Amber, Grandma.” In her pale blue eyes, I can see her working through it and not coming up with anything. “Do you remember me?”
I don’t want to stress her out, which could possibly lead to one of her meltdowns, so I pretend. I’m good at playing pretend, brilliant at it actually.
“Margaret?”
Her face lights up. “Yes.”
“Would you mind if I visit with you for a while?”
She gets a bit flustered, smoothing the velvet pants of the track suit I got her last Christmas while she thinks it over. “I’m not really dressed for a visit.”
“That’s alright––”
“And I don’t have anything to offer you.”
“I already ate.”
Timidly, she motions to the empty armchair near hers. I sit quietly and stare out the window with her.
Forty minutes later with a heavy heart I’m headed out the door. The head of administration for the assisted living facility, a lovely woman in her late fifties, catches me before I can walk out the front entrance.
“Miss Jones. May we have a word?” Her uncomfortable expression sets me on edge. I’m really not in the mood for small talk, but I definitely need to stay in her good graces.