Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
The kid keeps staring at me.
“Who’s that?”
Lucy opens her mouth, but I beat her to it.
“I’m Tucker.”
The little girl shifts the rabbit to her other hand and considers that. “When did you get here?”
“I slept outside,” I give her the truth. One thing I don’t believe in is lying to kids.
Quinn studies me. Then, very solemnly, “Mama says strangers aren’t supposed to sleep outside. If they’re homeless, they need to go to the shelter.”
A laugh punches out of me before I can stop it.
Lucy makes a mortified sound. “Quinn.”
There it is. The casual way a mother corrects a child over something not serious. Doesn’t matter what Lucy says, her daughter has decided to give me her full attention. She’s watching me like I’m a puzzle she hasn’t decided whether to trust.
“She’s right,” I add. “Usually they’re not. And I’ll let you in on a secret, Quinn.” Her eyes dance with amusement. “Moms are always right. So if you’re mama said it, she’s right.”
Quinn tilts her head. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not yet.”
That earns a tiny smile.
Lucy shakes her head and points toward the bathroom. “Go wash your face and brush your teeth. Then breakfast.”
Quinn nods and shuffles off without another word, though she glances back at me twice on the way down the hall.
Lucy exhales and rubs a hand over her forehead. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“She says whatever she thinks.” She sighs, “no filter that one.
“Good trait.”
“Not always.”
I grin despite myself and take the seat at the kitchen table she pointed at earlier.
By the time the coffee’s done brewing, the house is awake. Quinn comes back dressed for school in leggings and a yellow shirt with a sunflower on it. Lucy moves around the kitchen packing lunches, toasting bread, scrambling eggs, all while brushing her own hair into a ponytail.
I’ve seen women do impossible things before. Single moms do them all before eight in the damn morning.
Quinn slides into the chair across from me and props her chin on both hands. “You’re big.”
Lucy closes her eyes briefly. “Quinn.”
“What?” the little girl asks. “He is.”
“So I’ve been told,” I share. I am six feet four inches tall, to most kids I’m a damn giant.
That gets me another grin.
“Do you have a motorcycle? You look like a motorcycle man on television.”
“Yeah, I have a Harley-Davidson.”
“Is it loud?”
“Very.”
Her eyes widen with clear approval. Lucy sets a plate in front of her daughter and one in front of me after it—eggs, toast, and bacon.
“You don’t have to feed me too,” I explain.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
She finally looks at me. “Because you slept on my porch.”
Like that explains everything. Maybe it does.
Quinn starts on her toast. “Mama, can Tucker come to school with me? Jolie’s dad is coming for the career day. I don’t know what that means, but Jolie says her dad is coming and bringing a fire truck for all the kids to climb in and see. Mr. Tucker has a motorcycle and I think I like that better than a dumb fire truck. Only the boys will like the fire truck.”
Lucy nearly drops the coffee mug in her hand.
I cough into my fist to hide a laugh. “Career day, huh?” I repeat.
Quinn nods seriously. “You can talk about motorcycles.”
“Pretty sure your teachers want real jobs.”
“You have a real job.”
Lucy mutters, “That depends who you ask.” Then she looks to me. “Do you have a real job, Tucker?” She’s teasing me.
I catch it and my mouth twitches. I actually like this casual side to her.
Breakfast settles into an almost normal rhythm after that. Quinn asks me whether I know how to fight ninjas, whether my bike can go faster than a cheetah, and whether I’ve ever met anyone famous. I answer just enough to keep her talking. Lucy doesn’t say much. She’s watching me instead.
Not suspicious exactly. More like she’s trying to figure out where I fit in her kitchen at seven-thirty in the morning.
Fair question.
Once Quinn is finished eating, Lucy hustles her down the hall to finish getting ready. I hear the soft murmur of mother-daughter chaos—brush your hair, where are your shoes, yes you need socks, no you can’t take the rabbit to school today.
The sounds hit me in some place I don’t examine too closely.
When they come back out, Lucy’s in jeans and a fitted diner T-shirt with a cardigan over it, apron folded over one arm for later. Quinn has a backpack on and a banana in hand.
Lucy grabs her keys. “I have to drop her off and then head straight to work.”
I stand, collecting my cut from the back of the chair. “Then I’ll get out of your way.”
She hesitates. Like maybe she wants to say something else. Instead she nods.
At the door, Quinn looks up at me. “Bye, porch man. You can crash here tonight if you want to.”
I bark out a laugh. “Bye, kid.”