Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“It’s six a.m.” I groan, falling back onto the bed. My alarm goes off, literally making her words ring true. She grabs my phone, shutting it off for me.
“Who is Brad?” And I’m up again, grabbing the phone from her hand. Why the hell is he calling me at this hour?
“Why are we talking about Grandpa?” I change the subject back to why she burst into my room at the crack of dawn. He died three years ago. Only a few months after my grandma. I’m pretty sure he died of a broken heart. I have no idea how my father was related to the two of them. They were the epitome of love. The total opposite of who my Dad is. I had looked up to my grandparents. My father was clearly the black sheep of the bunch. He has a handful of brothers and sisters but he’s not close to any of them. I smile, thinking about how my grandpa couldn't keep his hands to himself. My grandma couldn't be out of the room for two minutes and he’d be looking for her. I don’t think they make men like him anymore. I spent most of my summers as a child with them at their estate in Connecticut. All the grandkids did. It was Grandma who made me fall in love with art.
“When he passed away did you have to sign anything?” The tone of my mom's voice is serious, which scares me a little.
“No,” I shake my head, getting up from my bed.
“Are you sure?”
“No, why would I sign something?” I was fifteen when he died. We’d fallen off the map with the rest of the family. I should have been better with keeping in contact with everyone. I always say that I’m going to be better but then never seem to find the time. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that because of my father I often felt as though I was a part of that whole black sheep thing. Even if everyone always treated my mom and me well. His actions have consequences and unfortunately sometimes we had to pay the price for them.
“How about recently? Since you turned eighteen. Has your father asked you to sign anything?”
“No.” I yawn, heading toward my bathroom to start to get ready.
“Are you sure?” Mom follows me into the bathroom.
“Yeah. I’m sure.” I shut the door, using the bathroom before I come back out.
“I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Mom, I gotta pee.” She is worked up this morning. “You on something?” I look her over. It’s six a.m. and normally she’s asleep. When did she get back?
“Hush. I just think I found something is all.” She rolls her eyes at me.
“You mean your PI found something?” I brush my hair out before starting in on light makeup so I don’t look like the walking dead. Makeup is an art of its own.
“Yes, the PI found something.” I glance at her in the mirror. Her cheeks turn a little rosy. Is she blushing? I turn around to look at her. I’m starting to get a little worried now. My mind races with what could be going on with her until it hits me.
“You’re crushing on the PI?” I ask because now I am paying attention. “Good for you, Mom.”
“Melody James.” She tries to make her tone scolding.
“Oh my God. Is he who you’ve been with this whole time? Was he at the spa with you?” Her face turns another shade of red, making me smile. She deserves to be happy. She’s taken enough crap from my dad over the years.
“I’m not talking about that.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Unless you want to talk about this Brad that’s been texting you.” She lifts one of her perfect eyebrows. She doesn’t have one wrinkle on her forehead. Now I’m the one whose face begins to flush.
“No, I haven't signed anything. He missed my birthday,” I remind her, walking into my closet and getting dressed. A few minutes later I walk out. I really should have Belle go through my closet. I haven't cleaned it out for a few years and there is a ton of stuff I’ve never worn in there. Most of it probably doesn’t fit me anymore. A lot of that stuff came from shopping trips with my mom. It is one of the only things that could get her mind off what was happening around her. The woman has an eye for fashion. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to talk her into starting her own line. I have a feeling my father is the one putting the brakes on that. He’s always trying to cut her down so that she’d think she couldn't do it. I know he definitely wouldn’t give her the means to get it done. I’m pretty sure that I inherited her eye for art. She just expresses hers differently than me. Fashion might not be my passion but it too is an art. So many things are but people don’t see it.