Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
But the carpets…
The furniture…
This is not good.
I wade back to the entry where I hung my purse. I find my phone and call my landlord, Wendy, who I’m praying is at home. Neither her nor Mark’s cars were in the driveway, but Wendy usually parks in the garage, so there’s a chance she’s upstairs.
“Brenna, hey. I just heard you come in. It’s really raining out there, huh?”
She’s home. Thank God. “It’s really raining in here, too,” I answer bleakly. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but there’s been a flood.”
“What?” she exclaims.
“Yup. I think you’d better put on some rain boots, preferably ones that go up to your knees, and come downstairs.”
Two hours later, we’re facing a nightmare scenario. The basement is fucked.
At Wendy’s SOS, her husband Mark rushed home from work early, and, after turning off the electricity to avoid, well, dying, the three of us conducted a thorough assessment with flashlights from upstairs. Mark assured me that insurance would cover the furniture I lost. Lost being the operative word, because none of it can be salvaged. There was too much water damage, so everything needs to be thrown out. All I could do was pack up the items that survived the Great Flood.
According to Mark, the house doesn’t have a sump pump installed because Hastings isn’t an area where flooding is at all common. My landlords will need to bring in a professional to pump the water; there’s far too much of it to be removed by a wet vac or mop. Mark estimated they would need at least a week to pump and thoroughly clean the basement, maybe even two weeks. Apparently without the proper cleanup, there’s danger of mold growth.
Which means I need to make alternate arrangements until the process is complete.
AKA, I’m moving back in with my father.
It’s not ideal, but it’s the best option I’ve got. Despite Summer’s insistence that I stay at her place, I refuse to live in the same house as Mike Hollis. No way can I deal with Hollis’s personality and him constantly hitting on me for an extended period of time. A home is supposed to be a safe, sacred place.
The dorms are out, too. My friend Audrey isn’t allowed to have anyone stay with her for more than a night or two—her resident advisor is a stickler about that kind of stuff. And while Elisa’s RA is more lenient, she lives in a cramped single, and I’d have to crash in a sleeping bag on her floor. Possibly for two weeks.
Screw that. At Dad’s house, I have my own bedroom, a lock on the door, and a private bath. I can suffer through Dad’s bullshit as long as that trifecta is met.
He picks me up from Mark and Wendy’s, and ten minutes later we trudge through the front door of his old Victorian. Dad carts my suitcase and duffel into the house, while I shoulder my backpack and laptop case.
“I’ll take these upstairs,” he says brusquely, disappearing up the narrow staircase. A moment later, I hear his footsteps creaking on the floor above my head.
As I unzip my boots and hang up my coat, I silently curse the weather. It’s been the bane of my existence for more than a month now, but it’s officially crossed the line. I’m declaring war on the climate.
I go upstairs and approach my room as my father is exiting it. It jars me how close his head comes to the top of the doorframe. Dad is tall and broad-shouldered, and I heard that the hockey groupies at Briar salivate over him as much as his players. And to that I say ew. Just because Dad’s handsome doesn’t mean I want to think about him in a sexual context.
“You okay?” he asks gruffly.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just irritated.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I swear, the last few days have been a nightmare. Starting from the interview on Friday and ending with tonight’s flood.”
“What about the follow-up interview yesterday? How did that go?”
Abysmally. At least until I pretended Jake Connelly was my boyfriend. But I keep that part to myself and say, “It was all right, but I’m not holding my breath. The interviewer was a total misogynist.”
Dad arches one dark eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Trust me, if I get hired, it’d be a miracle.” I shove a strand of hair off my forehead. “Anyway, I’m wet and my feet are frozen from wading around in the basement all afternoon. Do you mind if I take a hot shower?”
“Go ahead. I’ll leave you to it.”
I crank the shower in the hall bathroom, strip out of my damp clothes, and step into the glass stall. The warm water seeps into my bones and brings a shiver of pleasure. I make it even hotter, and it almost triggers an orgasm. I’m so tired of being cold and wet.