Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
But I don’t want to be a little dick with Mabel, like the jerks she dates. Because most men in their twenties are little dicks, and I’m pretty sure she’s been dating guys in their twenties.
My jaw clenches, along with my shoulders. I roll them, working out the kinks. Only, all this stretching isn’t helping me relax. Everything’s still tight.
Maybe you should stop obsessing about one stupid text, then, dumbass. Especially since you were texting to say, “We can’t do that again.”
Damn voice in my head is right. Mabel really meant it when she said all good. Code for it’s time to move on. I ought to let it go.
I text my kiddo, keeping my focus right where it should be.
Corbin: Here’s the blondie report. I’ve got everything lined up and ready. I repeat—all baking systems are a go.
World’s Best Daughter: Copy that! I’ll be reporting for baking duty in three hours! Also, good job with the mise en place.
Corbin: Nice job with the culinary words.
World’s Best Daughter: I have a good teacher. Also, can we save some blondies for Benny? I want to train him to like pumpkin from an early age.
I shudder. Pumpkin should really be abolished, but I reply with a resounding yes, since I’m damn grateful Charlotte has a three-year-old half brother and I had nothing to do with it. I know firsthand how tough it is to be an only child, and I seriously appreciate that I didn’t have to produce another kid for her to have a sibling. In fact, her mom deserves some treats for doing that for our daughter.
I tap out another message.
Corbin: Why don’t we give some to your mom and Travis too?
World’s Best Daughter: Mom says she loves pumpkin anything!
I laugh. Yup, Sarah does, though that’s not the reason Charlotte’s mom and I didn’t work out after a two-night stand. When she learned she was pregnant, we toyed with the idea of trying to be together, but after a few more trial dates, it was clear we didn’t have that forever kind of spark, and we were both okay with it. We agreed, too, that we wanted to raise Charlotte together here in Cozy Valley, where Sarah lives and works.
I set the phone down, and I swear this time I don’t ask myself if I should have replied to Mabel’s text from last night. What was I even going to say if she’d wanted to talk? “Life is complicated, with my schedule and your brother working for my team, but, hey, I want you to know if I were in a different place, I’d want to take you out. But I can’t right now. Sucks because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I shake my head.
Pointless. Just pointless. No woman wants a half-assed, if-I-were-in-a-different-place response like that. Ever.
Even though Mabel’s on a loop in my head.
What’s not pointless, though, is an extra workout. I have the time before Charlotte returns, so I head to my bedroom, change into a pair of basketball shorts from the stack in my drawer labeled navy blue and a T-shirt from the stack labeled gray and white. I return to the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from next to the mugs on the drying rack. It’s covered in stickers, thanks to Charlotte, who loves to conduct sticker sneak attacks. I scan it for a new one, then laugh when I read it: Hold On, Let Me Overthink This. As I fill the bottle, the rustle of leaves from the quaking aspen drifts through the open window.
I turn off the tap, then an unholy clatter rends the air. Mugs clatter and an infernal meow pierces my eardrums as a big, striped tabby cat skids past the mugs he knocked over, then leaps right onto my back.
“Seven,” I howl. The neighborhood cat might as well have dug his claws into my very soul and not just my skin. He jumps down, then immediately administers emergency bathing on his paws.
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” I ask.
He doesn’t even look up—just licks himself clean like I’ve contaminated him. “And to think, I feed you,” I add, as I check out the scratch on my arm. It hurts, but I’ll live.
Seven stops, looks up, and emits a plaintive mewl, looking like he’s about to hold out his bowl and ask, Please, sir, may I have some more.
I give him a once-over. “You’re not missing any meals, buddy.”
I’m only human, though, and not immune to those sad cat eyes. I yank open the cupboard, wincing when a pang shoots through my back. But I’ve dealt with worse pain on the ice and ignored those too. Grabbing the feather toy I bought for him at Whiskers and Kisses, I serve as the cat’s personal trainer for the next fifteen minutes, working him out till he flings himself onto the floor in a dramatic, exhausted heap.