She turns her left signal onto the withered down street of Rosedale, right before the suburban houses come into view. “Wouldn’t that be better than pretending like you’re not about to become a criminal?”
I take her phone and click next, only for a Russian ballad to blast out of the speakers.
“If she finds out, she’s gonna make me move in with her andEaston.” A part of me would thrive in an environment with Nadine again. When you grow up with someone and that person holds your hands through every phase in life, you yearn to be with them forever, even when you know you shouldn’t. Call it attachment issues, call it whatever you want, but it’s how I feel.
Which is why I stop myself from jumping at the chance to be present in her life again. Her happiness matters to me more than my own does.
“I have a solution for you, Nova.” She parks in front of my shop. My blue bicycle with its pretty pink basket leans against the door with a lock. “Stop buying books for six months and you’ll pay off the fee.”
Sighing, I unbuckle my seatbelt and bend forward so my elbows are on my thighs and my face is cupped in my hands. “That’s easier said than done.”
“Said every addict,” she mutters before inhaling sharply. “Another idea! We could admit you into rehab.”
Turning my face to look at her, I muffle the words in my palms. “You really think there’s rehab for book addicts?”
She turns her car off. The ignition farts in response before shutting down. “There’s rehab for all kinds of addicts.”
My phone dings with a message.
Rosa
Heard you’re about to be a criminal soon. I knew
that bratty attitude was going to get you somewhere.
Why do you hate me?
“Maybe I should. But with my sisters,” I show her the texts. “It’s impossible.”
Sunny sighs. “I forgot that the three of you are attached at thehip.”
“It’s called having a healthy relationship,” I sarcastically retort. “You should try it sometimes.”
“Says the hypocrite,” she sticks her tongue at me.
We sit in silence. The June heat pierces through the thick material of her seat.
Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Once, then twice.
Sunny’s fingers tap against the steering wheel while she motions with her head for me to check the message.
Dean “Ogre” Vuk
Good afternoon, Miss Rivera.
Dean “Ogre” Vuk”
When you arrive to drop off the flowers, please find me in my office to discuss urgent matters. Best regards, Dean Vuk.
My breathing halts. Stomach somersaults. Emotions quiver. And my senses? Obliterated.
“Shit.”
Vuk Securities is my only client (not by choice). Believe it or not, most people don’t care about personalized bouquets, plant advice, or getting their hands dirty anymore. A cruel world, Sunny says. But a boring one to me.
Mr. Vuk sending me a message instead of an email means I’m in serious trouble. That man doesn’t message me, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge my existence unless it’s needed.
