Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“I guess you do,” Renzo said, nodding.
“Are we really doing this now? It’s, like six in the morning.”
To that, the two men shared a look, then almost matching chuckles.
“Darlin’, it’s eleven,” Soren informed me.
“Oh. Well… yesterday was a lot.”
“Hence why I am here,” Renzo said.
“I will talk to you about—”
“No need. We already talked it all out—me and your man here.”
“You… talked it all out? Without me?”
“Everything we discussed last night,” Soren said, tone calming. “And he may or may not have thrown in a speech about not hurting you… or else. I get the feeling ‘or else’ might involve cement shoes and the bottom of the bay.”
“Nah. We don’t throw bodies in the bay,” Renzo said. Then, with a smirk, added, “Anymore.”
“So, what’s the consensus?” I asked, wondering if the idea that sounded so promising the day before was too crazy after all.
“I think it has merit. If your stubborn ass would be willing to go legit.”
“I went legit for this job,” I reminded him.
“Barely. You didn’t even dye your hair.”
“Sure I did. Almost weekly.”
He shook his head at that.
“You sure this is what you want to sign up for a lifetime of?” he asked, shooting me a smile as he spoke to Soren.
“Pretty sure,” Soren said.
“Alright. Well, I’m gonna cut out. We will talk in the coming days,” he said to me. “You should lock this shit down,” he said, pointing his thumb toward Soren. “He cooks.”
With that, he was gone, leaving me to turn to Soren.
“Speaking of cooking. I don’t own anything to cook with, so what is all of this?” I asked, waving a hand toward the island and the stove, which featured fancy pots, pans, and even a big mixing bowl.
“This is the result of waking up at five while knowing you wouldn’t drag your pretty ass out of bed until nine, so I ordered some things to get delivered.”
“Some?” I asked, glancing around. “It looks like the entire home goods section.”
“You only had… three spoons. Three spoons. Three forks. Three knives.”
“They were sold in three packs.”
“In three packs? Where is silverware sold in three packs?” he asked, brows pinched.
“The dollar store,” I admitted. “I was there buying gift bags because there’s no way I’m spending ten bucks on those at the normal store. And I saw them, realized I needed them, and got them.”
“Did you also happen to buy these there?” he asked, opening the cabinet where I kept my bowls.
“Yeah. I needed bowls.”
“They’re not bowls. They’re food storage containers.”
“They’re multi-purpose.”
“Oh, Saff. You’re a trip,” he said, smiling. “Well, to make you breakfast, I needed some actual kitchen supplies. Pots, pans, a spatula.”
“Hey, I had a spatula.” At his raised brows, I admitted, “Lore left it here after I hosted book club.”
“Where’d it go?”
“I use it to relocate a spider. Then was too grossed out by the whole situation ever use it, so I let the spider keep it. So what are you making? Challah bread French toast?”
“Belgian waffles,” he said, gesturing toward the contraption sitting on the island, smoke billowing from the closed lid. “And it looks like it has warmed up. Now, the question is: strawberries, blueberries, or chocolate chips?” I shot him a look that had him smiling. “All three. Of course.”
“I’m starting to think you really do know me.”
“What can I do?”
“Depends. Can I trust you to flip eggs?”
“Gee. I dunno. That sounds complicated.”
“Says the woman who cut her way out of restraints, stabbed a man in the hand, then jumped off the stage, grabbed a gun that I’m still not sure how you knew was there, and seemed ready to use it.”
“I was. I would have. I have,” I told him. “I know we kind of… grazed over my life in the family yesterday. But it has involved knives and guns. And all the things that happen when you use them.”
“I’ve seen mob documentaries, Saff. I know how it works. Wait… that day with the cuts on your hands, the ones you said were from a box cutter…”
“Brass knuckles,” I admitted. “They’re kind of shitty to use, but when the people I am up against are usually twice my size, I have to play dirty.”
“It might be wrong, but that mental image is kind of hot,” he told me as he poured some batter into the waffle iron, then added some chocolate chips.
“I get it. Because this is kind of hot,” I told him as I leaned against the counter.
“Don’t look at me like that. This thing only needs to cook for like three minutes. That’s not nearly long enough to get my fill of you.”
“Fineee,” I grumbled. “So, was that really uncomfortable? The talk with Renzo?”
“Not at all. He’s a pretty reasonable guy when he’s not pissed off.”
“To be fair, he’s rarely pissed off. That’s usually reserved for when one of us ignores a direct order.”