Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Just my ego.
“Everyone is fine,” I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek. And then, before she can poke any deeper, I head into the kitchen.
Even if I didn’t know that Siggy Mason was here before I came into the kitchen, I would’ve known now.
An assortment of leftovers is in warming trays along the counter. I peek inside and find meatballs, egg noodles, and mini corn on the cob. There’s a sliced pork loin because it’s Boone’s favorite and a big pan of mashed potatoes with golden butter melted on top.
On the island is a charcuterie board of cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and nuts. Mom has made these since we were kids. It amuses her that they’re trendy now.
My hand shakes as I reach for a cracker. It’s the slightest tremble. I toss a cracker on a plate stacked next to the board.
A long exhale whispers past my lips.
My insides still buzz from the adrenaline of the accident. My body still hums from the excitement of her.
Shaye Brewer is the epitome of what I love in a woman, what I’m attracted to. She’s beautiful, of course, but in an effortless way. Her smile is contagious. She drips with an exceptional degree of warmth, a unique charm that has me wondering if we’ve met before.
Except I know we haven’t. I would remember her.
As it is, I know nothing about her but her name. Who is she? Where does she work? Is she married?
I fill my plate with vegetables.
She has to be married. It’s the only logical reason that she refused to give me her number.
Getting phone numbers is never an issue for me. Hell, I routinely get digits without asking for, or wanting, them.
The first time in ages that I want one? Naturally, I don’t get it.
I chomp down on a carrot.
“Easy there,” Boone says, coming into the room. “You might break a tooth.”
I set the carrot down and feel my shoulders drop. The tension from the afternoon releases just a bit at being called out.
“How was the party?” I ask, hoping the change in topics will change the direction of my mood.
Boone slides up and on a barstool. “Solid ten out of ten. Fun fact should you ever need it—kids don’t need petting zoos at their birthday parties. They’re happy without it.”
“Doubt I’ll ever need that bit of information.”
“You never know.” Boone shrugs. “Mom was hell-bent on getting a donkey and a monkey and God knows what else, but Jaxi insisted that Rosie would be fine. Jaxi was right.”
He smiles proudly.
“Where is the birthday girl, anyway?” I ask.
“In the bath. She has dog slobber and pink icing in her hair, and Jaxi was afraid she was going to fall asleep before she got it clean.”
I smirk. “That’s like the kid version of waking up in Vegas.”
Boone laughs. “You know, I thought the same damn thing.”
I laugh too as I spin a carrot in a blob of ranch dip. “Where is everyone else? I know I’m late, but I thought people would still be here.”
“This is the beauty of preschool-aged parties. It’s just family, and when kids get cranky, people leave.” He motions toward the food spread. “When Mom is involved, we could feed an army and still have food left over.”
“That’s the truth.” I lean against the counter. “Did Dad show up?”
That’s all it takes for Boone’s laughter to diminish. His jaw sets.
“I’ll take that as a no.” I bite off the end of the carrot. “What’s his excuse this time?”
Boone shifts in his chair and releases a breath that’s filled with disappointment.
I get it.
Our father has been a no-show at most family activities lately. It’s not his lack of appearances that’s surprising. Actually, that’s the most consistent thing about him. The fact that he hasn’t bothered to call any of us, particularly me, with any sense of regularity that’s concerning.
And annoying.
“Mom said he took Gramps golfing in Myrtle Beach for a few days.” Boone shrugs as if it doesn’t bother him, but I know better. “I didn’t press. Fuck him.”
“Boone …” I swallow back what I really want to say. It won’t do anyone any good. “Let’s reserve the fuck hims for non-family members. Okay?”
“He misses everything, Ollie. I bet he’s seen Rosie twice since she came into our world. He doesn’t call to play golf on the weekends or invite me to poker with the guys. Nothing.”
Boone’s face falls.
I toss the rest of the carrot back onto my plate and lean against the counter.
As frustrated as I have been with our dad for a few months now, I’ve never been more irritated than at this moment.
Growing up, Dad was hard on us. He pressured all of his sons to do everything and to do it all well. We were to exceed expectations, and we did. Holt, Wade, Coy, Boone, and I were All-Star baseball and football players. We took music lessons. We got excellent grades. His demands were irritating, but I could deal with them. We all dealt with them and saw the reasoning behind them. He wanted us to win. To succeed. And we all have—without question.