Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
At the diner, Sam and I were sitting, our pie and coffee an easy order, unlike Aaron’s custard and Duncan’s pumpkin cheesecake. When Aaron reached the table, he was cursing under his breath.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked him.
He turned, put his and Duncan’s coffee mugs down on the table, and then gestured at Duncan at the counter. “That guy, who can’t be any older than Kola, is shamelessly flirting with my husband.”
“Well, I’m sure he just hasn’t seen Duncan’s ring,” I said, making excuses for the guy.
“Are you kidding?” Sam scoffed. “You can see those diamonds from space.”
Aaron growled. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, charging over to the counter and wrapping his arms around Duncan’s chest at the same time he put his chin on his shoulder. Duncan turned his head, smiled, and made it more than clear that he loved and adored his husband and found everything he did, endearing.
Sam huffed out a breath beside me.
“You have something to say, Mr. Kage?”
“If a ring like Duncan’s won’t stop people, I have no idea what does.”
“The words, no, thank you, I’m happily married,” I whispered in his ear before I kissed his cheek. “That’s what does it.”
“Did you say that to that nozzle at the party who was practically eye-fucking you?”
“First off, he was not, in fact, doing any eye-fucking, more chatting. Second, yes, dear, I told him I was very married.”
“So you’re saying that I’m being ridiculous?”
I loved my possessive husband more than life, so I would never say that to him. “No, but everyone knows I’m mad about you. All they have to do is look at my face when you come anywhere near me.”
“Yeah, well,” he replied gruffly, putting an arm around me and sliding me up against him in the booth, “I guess I won’t shoot anybody, then.”
The satisfied male grunt I got when I kissed his jaw was very good to hear.
Since Kola, Harper, and Jake were done with all their classes on the Thursday the week before Thanksgiving, they all flew home on Friday the eighteenth. I was waiting—like many other parents I didn’t know and Harper’s parents that I did—in the terminal with bated breath. When I saw him, I started to cry. It was dumb, but I couldn’t help it, and by the time he stepped into my arms I had to shove my face into his shoulder so he wouldn’t notice. He laughed at me and hugged me tight. I hugged him tighter. He then went to Sam, who switched me for Jake, who I hugged really tight as well. Hannah was there with us and lunged at her brother after Sam let him go. I then waited for my turn to hug Harper and welcome him home as well. All three of them looked odd. Not bad, but maybe like they’d all lost a bit of weight. Like gaunt. I knew they were eating, but as Kola explained on the ride home, there was only so much they all knew how to cook.
“I can’t ever eat tuna casserole again,” Jake shared with us. “Ever.”
Kola nodded.
Apparently, Harper had found a good recipe that was also economic, and they’d eaten it many consecutive days. And lather, rinse, repeat until just the smell, according to Jake, caused a visceral reaction.
“I think it’s ruined me for life,” Kola said sadly.
“Remember in, like, the fourth grade when my mother made the bad egg salad?” Jake asked me.
I shook my head. “It wasn’t your mother’s egg salad. It was that you told her you had access to a refrigerator at school when you, in fact, did not.”
He scowled at me.
“As a parent, I don’t abide blaming other parents for the idiocy of the child.”
“Hear! Hear!” Sam seconded as he turned into our driveway.
“The point is that I couldn’t eat eggs for a year after I was sick,” Jake reminded us, “and I still don’t eat deviled eggs or egg salad.”
“Not my favorite either,” I told him.
“Yeah, well, I feel like the tuna thing is a lifetime leave-off.”
“Same,” Kola said and shivered.
“The same with red-bean-and-rice soup,” Jake began, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He and Kola looked wrung out as well.
“You like red beans and rice,” Sam reminded Kola as we all started piling out of the car.
“I do, but the recipe Jake found is nothing like what I had in New Orleans,” Kola assured us. “This one can be made for nine bucks and feeds us for a week.”
I turned to my son. “You eat it for a week?”
“Yeah.”
“It sticks to your ribs,” Jake explained. “And to your intestines and your colon––”
“One bowl,” Kola went on, “and you’re good for half the day.”
Jake groaned. “It’s really gross now.”
“It was always gross,” Kola told him, “but it is cheap. Just like the ramen.”