Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought,” she says, and even though I’m not looking at her as I grab my purse and keys, I can hear her “Checkmate” smile in her voice. “We need whole milk again, so you might as well make yourself useful and grab two gallons. Oh, and while you’re there, get a gallon of oat, almond, and 2%, too.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.” I salute her like a diligent soldier and slip through the front door faster than a cat on the nip. She’s obviously not ready to air out all of her dirty laundry, and quite frankly, neither am I. Our secrets will live to see another day.
I keep my head down on the short walk across the square, lest I draw some kind of unwanted attention from townspeople after the article about my ex-fiancé’s grand visit to Red Bridge in the paper this past week, and pull my hair over my earbuds to make a curtain around my face.
The automatic doors to Earl’s Grocery open, and I step inside with Carly Simon reverberating through my ears. She sings about some guy and how vain he is, and I almost hate how much I can relate to this song and the fact that it makes me think of Thomas.
There’s a large, far-too-curious part of me that wonders how things went for him after he left Red Bridge with a protection order to leave me the hell alone. A man like Thomas King is used to getting what he wants and things going his way…all the time. His experience in this small town was the complete opposite of that. It goes without saying that it got under his skin. But the consequences of that? I don’t know.
Did he tell his father?
Does my mother know about what happened?
Is he actually going to leave me alone?
So many questions that I wish I didn’t have.
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and purposefully change the song from Carly Simon to Lesley Gore and some lyrics with the empowering vibe I need.
No one owns me. Not Thomas. Not my mother. No one.
And no one is going to tell me what to do or say or think or feel. I am my own woman, dammit, and I’m going to create my own life where I get to make all the decisions and live the way I want.
Lesley is the perfect wingwoman, and I stroll through the grocery store mentally singing along with her. The refrigerator section is in the back, and I take my time getting there, winding through the aisles and even stopping in the magazine aisle to peruse a little.
It’s going extremely well…until it isn’t.
Right there, on the tabloid next to People magazine, is the only face I’ve ever been able to forget. Except now, it’s noticeably bruised.
I snatch the shiny paper off the shelf, turn to the page it suggests, and start reading.
Thomas King’s Mysterious Black Eyes
The young heir to King Financial was seen at Tavern on the Green last night, enjoying dinner and drinks with friends. Though, no one could miss the prominent black eyes and swollen nose on his face.
Which leaves all of us wondering—what happened to Thomas King?
“Ever since Norah Ellis left him at the altar, Thomas has been having a really rough time,” one inside source revealed. “And this just proves that nothing is right in his world. Honestly, I feel bad for the guy. First, the love of your life leaves you for another man, and then, you get in some kind of fight? It’s horrible.”
Left him for another man?
What a boot-licking, ass-kissing, tale-telling asshole.
Frustrated, I slam the tabloid back on the shelf and take off for the front of the store. I’m almost out the door when I see the want ads bulletin board for all the job postings in town.
With an even hotter fire burning inside me to make something of myself on my own and leave Thomas and my mother and stupid New York in the past, I scan through the push-pinned papers with fast eyes.
Shearing sheep on Tad Hanson’s farm, a teller at the Red Bridge bank, and an assistant manager at Earl’s—none of it is speaking to me.
I frown and pick through the other papers on the board until I finally find one that stands out as interesting.
A simple sheet of white paper with printed black letters—Artist’s Assistant Needed. Open Interviews Every Tuesday at 12 p.m.
No phone number. No name. Just an address.
Without hesitation, I pull my phone out of my back pocket and snap a quick picture of the flyer.
I’ll have to wait for Tuesday to check it out, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend even another minute thinking about Thomas King.
I turn to leave, but when I see a woman heading out the doors with a cart full of bagged groceries, I realize I’ve forgotten Josie’s request for milk of all kinds. And I can’t go back there empty-handed—she’ll kill me. Or, you know, at least try to interrogate me some more.