Novel & Cerita Rachel Brockman Age

“No, I’m living with my aunt.” “Who’s your aunt?” “Oh, you don’t want to know,” Rachel mumbled trying to shake the topic off but I was being persistent. “But why?” “Because my aunt is our school’s headmistress.” Rachel spat. “What in the?!!!” I almost shit my pants about hearing Rachel’s sudden confession. This is what she was trying to avoid when we were at the clinic after Ambrose beat the shit out of me. “Miss Briar is your aunt?” “Yeah, but don’t you go telling other people about that. You are just the fourth person to know that.”

I whined, giving her my best puppy-dog eyes. Miss Rachel was in her late thirties, beautiful but tough. She had a round face, dark brown eyes, and a permanent scowl that made people back off. She probably hated her job, but she was damn good at it. Her brown hair was a messy bun, and her olive skin stood out against the pale blue of her scrubs. “Not one bit.” She didn’t even glance up, keeping her attention on her screen. Hurt, I knocked on the window again, this time repeating it to annoy her.

“You never try. Always ‘I don’t know,’ ‘I don’t gossip,’ ‘I haven’t heard.’ Blah, blah, blah.” “Delia?” Emily guessed, naming their old neighbor’s daughter just to stop the lecture. “Oh, Emily! Delia has been married for five years!” her mother huffed. “Honestly, you live under a rock.” “Well… who is it, then?” Emily asked quietly. “You won’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it myself. Rachel. Rachel from across the street. Thirty-five-year-old Rachel.” “Oh.” Emily pressed her fingers to her temple. “Well… good for her.”

I was closing up my laptop when someone knocked at my door. “Enter,” I called. Rachel came in. She was a beautiful girl, one year away from her eighteenth birthday. We didn’t know the exact date she was born, so we gave her a birthday and celebrated it every year on June first with a picnic down by the lake and a shopping trip in town.

, she said, shaking my hand. Rachel blake, that's it... what a small world. So Blake only child is all grown up now and looking like a bag of pumpkins. We hardly get to see his daughter, the last time I did, she was 11yrs old. From what I know, Rachel was born to a black mother.

Rachel said in a pleading tone. “I am serious, Rachel,” I replied, and she rose up to sit down again, her eyes on me. “The same Nicholas Devereux?” She asked and I nodded. “The man who is actually in control of the city? The youngest and wealthiest CEO in Los Angeles. I heard he is 32 years old.” Rachel rambled on. “You are freaking me out, Rachel,” I said in a calm tone and she breathed slowly, gesturing with her hand. “No. I am in shock because you caught a big fish. He is single Celine. Did you guys later talk?” Rachel asked and I shook my head.

"Rachel, I won't be able to make it to work tomorrow. There's a meeting that you'll need to oversee in my absence. Please make sure everything runs smoothly. I trust you to handle it. -Welbeck." As he hit send, a wave of relief washed over Welbeck, knowing that Rachel was more than capable of stepping up to the challenge. She had been his right-hand woman for years, a dedicated and efficient employee who had proven her worth time and time again. With her at the helm, Welbeck was confident that the meeting would be in good hands.

After a moment, I hear someone walk to the door, followed by silence, then the sound of chains moving. “Rachel? I didn’t know you were in town. Is everything okay?” Asks fifty-two-year-old John Anderson as he opens the door. Retired construction worker, divorced, two children, both who live out of home. Lovely guy, and very friendly. Looks a lot like James Brolin thirty years ago. I mostly try to avoid people, but sometimes you bump into neighbours, and you just have to go with it. I became friendly with John six years ago. He knows me as Rachel Macintyre; twenty-nine-year-old flight attendant. Which explains why I’m rarely home.

Yule placed the photo in front of Charlie and Quinn before he spoke up, “Look! Wasn’t I telling the truth?” Charlie looked at the photo, and Rachel looked about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old in the photo. However, at that time, Rachel was taking the mature route. Even though it was an old photo, she still looked exceptionally attractive. Rachel, at that time, had an even better temperament as compared to Quinn now. Quinn, who was aside, looked at the old photo of her mother and exclaimed, “Mom, you really looked so beautiful when you were young. Even though I’ve already seen this photo many times, I cannot help but be filled with praises every time I see it…”

The sitting room was very still. Rachel wrote something. More than a notation this time. “Lillian,” she said. “I want to ask you about your name. Whether you want it used in the story. I don’t assume. I ask directly.” “Use it,” Lillian said. “I have been unnamed for thirteen years. I am done with that.” Rachel looked at her with the expression that was not shock but was more than professional interest, the sustained quality I had seen in her office on Monday. “And your age,” Rachel said. “You’re nineteen.”