Bring Me Back (Forever Book 1) by Karen Booth

Author:Karen Booth [Booth, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-03-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Six

Despite Chris’s worries, I made it back to the house in one piece. My lunch with Angie had been slightly traumatizing and not what I’d looked forward to but she was so sweet about it all, such a lovely person. Struggling for a bright spot, I felt like we’d shared something—something yucky, but it was still something.

There was no sign of Chris in the house, but I found a note on the kitchen table.

My dear Claire,

I know I told you to hurry back but I had to dash out to run an errand. Please don’t go anywhere. I swear I’ll be right back. Don’t take off the jeans. That’s my job.

XOXO Chris

I took a beer into the living room with my laptop. I re-read the note and smiled, hoping the tabloid photos wouldn’t ruin our night. Checking email, I replied to Sam’s complaints about her grandfather and his rules. I reminded her that it was only for a few days and that she should enjoy their time together. I knew I was full of it as soon as I hit send, expecting from her what I wasn’t able to do myself.

A new message appeared in my inbox and I sensed that my worst fear was about to materialize when I saw that it was from Patrick. My head began to pound, my stomach filled with dread. Sure enough, a frustratingly non-specific note instructing me to call him first thing Monday morning. Of course, I would be flying home from LA on Monday morning.

I couldn’t think about it with any seriousness, things were out of my control. I turned off my computer and tried to relax. I shut my eyes, but that only made my anxiety balloon. Being alone with my thoughts was a terrible idea. My eyelids fluttered open and the books served as my reminder. I was blowing my opportunity to check out Chris’s library unsupervised.

There were so many books to look at, an array of colorful spines, an eclectic mix of authors and subjects. I browsed and came across some about art and photography. A few had dark and gritty stuff—black and white images of people in despair, living lives that were unimaginable, poverty and filth. But then there were books filled with bright and colorful pop art. More than a few focused on artful portraits of beautiful women, some with clothes and many without.

I opened a volume of sepia tone photographs of a grungy late Nineteenth Century London. The pages spread open to the middle, held by a photograph. There was a lanky boy with thick reddish-brown bowl-cut hair in a striped t-shirt and navy pants with rips at the knees. He leaned against a graying man in a wide maroon necktie and scuffed cordovan shoes.

The Tudor house behind them had a wobbly roof and a latticework of thick brown slats over the cream-colored exterior. The garden behind the fence was overgrown, blooms popping through the pickets. I turned over the photograph and the caption was

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