Free Saved: A Billionaire Romance (The Saved Series Book 1) by Lexi Larue Page B
Authors: Lexi Larue
the closet and kicked off my stilettos, feeling immediate relief when my aching feet sunk into the soft, beige carpet. My schedule only permitted time for a small salad at lunch, so I was starving. I heated up some leftover chicken and rice and grabbed a bottle of water.
I only had about an hour before I needed to leave for the reading, but I had to decompress first. My apartment was the only place I felt totally calm, and I savored each moment. Sitting in front of my 32-inch TV, I flipped through channels until I found reruns of "Gilmore Girls." The relationship between the mother and daughter on the show was one I always envied. My family was nothing like that at all. I might have had two parents, but they weren't supportive or loving. And neither was the man that I left them for.
I shook my head to try to clear the cobwebs of bad memories that threatened to take over and darken my night. I quickly washed my plate and went into my room to change. Looking through my small wardrobe, I settled on a pair of well-worn American Eagle bootcut jeans, a black v-neck shirt, and a thin, black cardigan. I slipped a pair of black flip flops on my feet and secured my grandmother's tiny diamond pendant around my neck. Wearing it always made me feel closer to the only person in the world who had ever really cared about me.
Before I headed out the door, I grabbed my copy of the book. I noticed a display advertising the author's visit the last time I was at the store and was intrigued by the fictional story of a young woman in Chicago in the 1960s. After reading just three chapters, I was hooked. I loved to get lost in other people's worlds. Sometimes I would even pretend that I was one of the characters, getting my happy ending no matter what life brought me in the story. I was pretty sure there was no happy ending in my reality, only a life of hiding and constantly looking over my shoulder.
Chapter 2
I left my building and made it to Hawthorne's bookstore in less than 20 minutes. A 50-something-year-old couple owned the store and stocked it with books that you might not find in one of the huge chain stores. There were cozy corners and beanbag chairs all over the store that were strategically placed for quiet reading. It was my favorite place outside of my apartment.
Tonight, there were four rows of folding chairs set up in front of a wooden podium. A large poster sat on an easel to the left of the podium, emblazoned with the book's cover. It was a picture of a young woman with straight, brown hair that hung all the way down her back. She wore bell-bottom pants, a navy pea coat, and brown boots. Only her back was visible as she strolled down a busy Chicago street. One tiny person in a city full of people. The book was called, "Hiding from Myself," and I related to every single page I read so far.
After settling into a chair in the second row, I began to scan the small crowd of people who sat around me. There was a young couple whispering to each other and holding hands. A middle-aged woman busied herself by knitting what looked like a scarf in the front row. A man in a bow tie sat three seats away from me, and his dark-framed glasses and khaki pants made me wonder if he was a college professor. I looked through my book to avoid making eye contact with any of them. It was always better not to be too friendly with strangers.
The bell rang behind me, indicating that another person came in. I waited a few seconds before looking up, attempting to seem uninterested in my surroundings. When I finally allowed my eyes to rest on the person who sat one row ahead and four seats to the right, my breath caught in my throat.
A young man, somewhere between 25 and 30 I guessed, with short hair so dark brown that it was almost black, sat holding a copy of the book. He was well-dressed but remained casual in a blue plaid button-down shirt and relaxed jeans. I could only see a tiny bit of his face, but his strong chin, and the small dimple in his
I only had about an hour before I needed to leave for the reading, but I had to decompress first. My apartment was the only place I felt totally calm, and I savored each moment. Sitting in front of my 32-inch TV, I flipped through channels until I found reruns of "Gilmore Girls." The relationship between the mother and daughter on the show was one I always envied. My family was nothing like that at all. I might have had two parents, but they weren't supportive or loving. And neither was the man that I left them for.
I shook my head to try to clear the cobwebs of bad memories that threatened to take over and darken my night. I quickly washed my plate and went into my room to change. Looking through my small wardrobe, I settled on a pair of well-worn American Eagle bootcut jeans, a black v-neck shirt, and a thin, black cardigan. I slipped a pair of black flip flops on my feet and secured my grandmother's tiny diamond pendant around my neck. Wearing it always made me feel closer to the only person in the world who had ever really cared about me.
Before I headed out the door, I grabbed my copy of the book. I noticed a display advertising the author's visit the last time I was at the store and was intrigued by the fictional story of a young woman in Chicago in the 1960s. After reading just three chapters, I was hooked. I loved to get lost in other people's worlds. Sometimes I would even pretend that I was one of the characters, getting my happy ending no matter what life brought me in the story. I was pretty sure there was no happy ending in my reality, only a life of hiding and constantly looking over my shoulder.
Chapter 2
I left my building and made it to Hawthorne's bookstore in less than 20 minutes. A 50-something-year-old couple owned the store and stocked it with books that you might not find in one of the huge chain stores. There were cozy corners and beanbag chairs all over the store that were strategically placed for quiet reading. It was my favorite place outside of my apartment.
Tonight, there were four rows of folding chairs set up in front of a wooden podium. A large poster sat on an easel to the left of the podium, emblazoned with the book's cover. It was a picture of a young woman with straight, brown hair that hung all the way down her back. She wore bell-bottom pants, a navy pea coat, and brown boots. Only her back was visible as she strolled down a busy Chicago street. One tiny person in a city full of people. The book was called, "Hiding from Myself," and I related to every single page I read so far.
After settling into a chair in the second row, I began to scan the small crowd of people who sat around me. There was a young couple whispering to each other and holding hands. A middle-aged woman busied herself by knitting what looked like a scarf in the front row. A man in a bow tie sat three seats away from me, and his dark-framed glasses and khaki pants made me wonder if he was a college professor. I looked through my book to avoid making eye contact with any of them. It was always better not to be too friendly with strangers.
The bell rang behind me, indicating that another person came in. I waited a few seconds before looking up, attempting to seem uninterested in my surroundings. When I finally allowed my eyes to rest on the person who sat one row ahead and four seats to the right, my breath caught in my throat.
A young man, somewhere between 25 and 30 I guessed, with short hair so dark brown that it was almost black, sat holding a copy of the book. He was well-dressed but remained casual in a blue plaid button-down shirt and relaxed jeans. I could only see a tiny bit of his face, but his strong chin, and the small dimple in his
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