The Lake House Read Online Free Page B

you seriously act like a spoiled princess.”
    “Oh, I’m a princess?”
    “You get to travel the world because of me. Yet you come home and bitch because I don’t allow you to sleep all day. If the shoe fits.”
    “And I have nothing to do with my success.” Her anger festered. He wasn’t listening to her. She tried to calm down, but the uncontrollable fury from feeling invisible forced the words out, “You know what, Charlie, I can’t do this anymore.” She took a shaky breath. “I think we need to take some time apart.”
    The muscles in his jaw cranked with tension as he tucked a blue silk tie under the collar. He walked toward her and leaned his face within inches of hers. “You might want to be careful with what you say, or your life could change drastically. I’m going to work. We have an important networking event at the end of the week. Get over your damn tantrum and get it together.” He walked to the kitchen and she could hear him putting on his shoes. The chair scraped against the tile and then the door slammed.
    A stifled scream rumbled in her lungs. She climbed onto the stiff mattress and tugged at the window covers. Damn curtains that shut out the light when he wants to sleep and brighten his day when he goes to work. Doesn’t matter that I fell asleep at 3 a.m. With the curtains closed and the room dark, Heather grabbed her coffee and slumped onto the bed. She created a cocoon around her body with the blanket as she cradled her mug.
    “You don’t even pay attention when I try to break up with you,” she mumbled.
    Heather curled the blankets closer and sipped the coffee. She longed for the coffee she drank in Africa. She let her thoughts wander back to her trip as she tried to calm her nerves.
    Every morning at five o’clock, Manal, her guide in Botswana, would sing out her name. Hot coffee prepared with sugar, a splash of brandy, and heavy cream awaited her on the table outside her tent. Porridge, covered in more cream and brown sugar, greetedher when she took her place around the morning campfire. As the Okavango Delta’s cool dark waters gave birth to the blood-orange sun and monkeys tried to steal her silverware, she savored breakfast. Mid-morning, Manal would set up a table and camp chairs next to the open Land Rover and Heather feasted on scones and biscuits dipped in hot chocolate and watched giraffes nibble on the sausage tree’s long fruits. At night, while the kitchen staff sang, their cadences joined by hippo grunts and deep-throated lion calls, she and the other guests would stare at the stars and sip Amarula, the sweet, creamy liqueur of the marula tree.
    Charlie was right. She’d spent a month living her dream of traveling and writing, and he’d helped her to achieve it. But that couldn’t mean that for the rest of her life she had to feel indebted to him . . . and invisible in their relationship.
    A car horn honked. The rush-hour traffic on Storrow Drive motored past her apartment. Someone slammed a door and three car alarms screeched. As the city awoke outside her window, Heather longed for quiet.
    From her overstuffed drawers, she grabbed a baggy sweatshirt and pink M&M’s flannel pajamas—which Charlie never saw—and threw on her glasses. In the kitchen she raised the thermostat from 60 to 75 and filled her coffee cup.
    The refrigerator door hit against the table as she grabbed ingredients for a protein shake. She dug in the cabinets for the blender, but realized the glass pitcher was dirty in the dishwasher. Frustrated, she returned to the bedroom to get dressed and head out for breakfast. She opened the door to her tiny closet jammed with clothing and then closed it.
    There wasn’t room for her in this apartment. Charlie used three-quarters of the storage space, citing the fact that she traveledmost of the year and only needed access to her things on the rare occasion she was home.
    Charlie’s black leather couch felt stiff and uncomfortable as she sat with her