Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
"Hungry, baby?"
"Always." She's already got her boots half on. "I want to look. Henrietta only makes apple, and I'm a blueberry woman, Allister, you know this about me."
I do. I keep an entire shelf of the pantry stocked with blueberry Pop-Tarts for a reason.
I cut the engine and round the hood before she's got her door open, because she'll forget and try to step down on her own, and her left knee still doesn't trust the cold. I lift her out and set her on her feet on the salted lot, hands on her waist until her balance settles under my palms.
"I can walk, you big brute."
"I know you can." I don't let go. "Doesn't mean I have to like watching, precious."
She rolls her eyes and tows me through the door by two fingers hooked in my belt.
The bell over the door rings as we step inside, where it's warm and loud, with grease and coffee. A waitress calls us hon as she welcomes us, and Leah makes a beeline for the glass case at the counter, hands clasped behind her back, leaning in to study every shelf like she's at the Louvre. I take the stool nearest and let myself look at her. Wide brown eyes, that bottom lip caught in her teeth, the little crease of concentration between her brows.
She's mine. Still gets me, the simple fact of it.
I don't notice the two of them until one starts talking.
Booth by the window. College age, maybe, or close enough to think they're slick. The taller one slides out and props an elbow on the counter beside my girl like he owns it.
"Whoa. Hey. You come here a lot?"
The cold drops over me. It's instant and familiar, the same rage that used to live in me before I found her.
My hand flattens on the counter.
"Because I've never seen you before." The second one's up now too, crowding her other side. "And I'd remember."
Leah doesn't look up from the pie case.
I'm halfway off the stool. Then she speaks, and I go still to listen.
"That's so sweet." Her voice is bright, friendly, the voice she uses on door-to-door salesmen and people she's about to ruin. "But I really can't talk to you."
"Aw, come on. Just a name."
She finally turns and gives them the full force of those eyes, all wide and apologetic, one hand pressed flat to her chest.
"I can't. My daddy doesn't let me talk to strangers."
Silence. The taller one's mouth opens and nothing comes out. The other one laughs, uncertain, scanning the diner for the punchline.
I let them find me.
I'm a big man. I know what I look like when I stand all the way up and let my face do the rest. Both of them go a particular shade of gray, the shade men go when their lizard brain catches up to their mouth.
"Found him," I say.
"We were just talking," the tall one starts.
"You were talking to my wife." I lay a hand flat on the counter between him and her, big enough that he leans away from it on instinct. "So here's how this goes. You sit back down. You eat your eggs. And you don't put your eyes on her again, not once, or they'll be wiring your jaw shut before New Year's. We clear?"
He nods so fast it's almost funny. The other one's already folding himself back into the booth.
"Good." I gentle my voice for the last part, because the threat already landed, and there's no need to shout. "Smart boys."
They sit. They study their plates like the meaning of life is written in the hash browns.
And my girl, my sweet, smug, terrible girl, turns back to the pie case like nothing happened, the corner of her mouth twitching.
"They have blueberry pie," she says. "And a blueberry crumble. I think I want the crumble."
I cross the last three feet between us. Slide both arms around her from behind, lock my hands low on her belly, and fit my mouth to the top of her head where her hair smells like cinnamon, snow, and the lemon stuff she puts in it.
"Daddy doesn't let you talk to strangers." I drag the words slow along the shell of her ear, and her shiver runs all the way down. "That's right, precious. Good girl."
"It worked, didn't it?" She tips her head back against my chest, smug as a cat. "You should be thanking me. I saved those poor boys from getting murdered in a pie diner."
"You like winding me up." My mouth's at her throat now, my hands splayed wide and possessive over her belly. "You like knowing exactly what it does to me. What I'm going to do about it."
"Maybe." Breathless. Not smug anymore.
"No maybe. I'm taking you out to that truck, and I'm going to remind you who that smart little mouth belongs to. Then I'm going to remind the rest of you."