Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
I don’t tell her how truly crippling it is.
How my mom can’t stand more than ten minutes in front of the stove to cook like she loved—and how much of a toll that’s taken on her mental health.
Never mind Dad’s dementia, the way he mixes up people and places at an alarming rate. Last week, he confused their fortieth anniversary cruise in the Bahamas with their honeymoon. Mom looked devastated.
I also don’t mention how her joint issues are probably hereditary. That’s my problem, and no one else’s.
My knee creaks again, reminding me I can’t outrun age and genetics, no matter how hard I try with diet and exercise.
“I’m sure she’s proud of you.” Cleo grabs a fork and steals a scallop as I’m stirring the potatoes and plating up. “If nothing else, you’re one hell of a cook. She taught you well and it shows.”
“Woman, just because my idea of good food isn’t instant ramen slathered in a whole bottle of sriracha—”
“In college,” she protests, jabbing me in the side again.
I dodge her, swatting her back with the spatula.
“Yeah, what do you cook now? Don’t think I’ve seen you in the kitchen.”
“I can make a mean omelet. And my French toast is legendary, or so my old roommate said.” She tries and fails not to smile.
“French toast? Heavy-ass meal to start the day.”
“Delicious start, you mean. The one thing Dad ever bothered making consistently. Usually because he was so hungover it was the only thing he could handle without throwing up. Get me a skillet and the right ingredients, and I will cook that bread to perfection.”
“Not the brag you think it is, Nile. Keep talking and you’ll be making it for dinner tomorrow.”
“Oh, it’s on. Prepare to be blown away,” she promises.
I stare at her for a second, something in my chest softening. She fetches silverware and sets the table like it’s normal routine.
The ritual I wish I’d had with Charli, half a lifetime ago.
Cursed thoughts.
“I like how you aren’t as scowly when it’s dinnertime.” She brings out a bottle of wine and pours two glasses.
“Huh?”
“You’re usually scowling. Or glowering. Or glaring. Or—”
“I get it, brat. So what?”
She laughs, showing off her elegant throat.
Goddamn, I want to sink my teeth in and fucking mark her.
“So, you should learn to lighten up without a plate of food in front of you. You’d be more approachable.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
When she looks at me again, I know it’s not something premeditated and intentional. She’s not trying to stir me up on purpose, it just comes naturally.
“Mealtimes are sacred in our house,” I say, carrying the plates to the table. “That’s when I get a little peace and quiet. Until Kit goes off about her latest book.”
“I heard her talking about the Russian Revolution. She was really into the egg. I wish you’d let me tell her more.” She smiles.
I roll my eyes fondly. “The girl likes the bloodiest parts of history. Not sure what that means for her later on.”
“They’re the most interesting.” She raises her glass and takes a long sip.
I stare down at the food on my plate, pretending to fluff my potatoes.
How has it come to this? Trying to get through dinner without a permanent hard-on.
“She seems like a sweet kid, though,” Cleo says, not seeming to notice the direction my thoughts are going. “You must be proud of her.”
“I am. Every nerdy, mischievous bit of her.”
The smile Cleo beams back looks a little sad.
I wonder if she’s thinking about her dad and all the ways he’s never been that attentive.
“Nothing wrong with nerdy. The world needs more of that—especially girl nerds. They’re the ones who figure it out for the rest of us while they’re sorting out their own lives.”
Can’t disagree with that logic.
I lift my glass. “Here’s to that. As long as she always remembers there are times when her old man knows best.”
Cleo’s eyes sparkle over the top of her wineglass. The same wine she got from the cellar earlier, when I wasn’t looking. Must be a joy for her to walk in and find it unlocked.
So much has changed.
“She won’t,” she says flatly. “Once she hits twelve or thirteen, you’re screwed.”
“Already dreading it.”
“She’s going to run rings around you.” She grins, licking a stray drop of wine from the rim of her glass. The burgundy liquid disappears behind her lips.
Too sexy by half.
That’s her problem, and she doesn’t even know it.
My cock does, though, and it has a one-track mind. If it had a vote, I’d swear off scallops for life if it meant hauling Cleo into bed this second.
“If she’s anything like you, she’ll make me grey as a wizard’s beard,” I say.
“Greyer, you mean.” I glower. She reaches over and flicks at my beard. “Don’t be embarrassed. The silver makes you look kinda distinguished. You’ll be rocking the full-blown silver fox vibe in five or ten years.”