Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“No one is, D,” I said with a wink. “Well, I told Chef, but only because I didn’t want her to come after me. She can snap that damn dish towel like no one else. Pretty sure I still have a scar on my ass from where she got me that one time she caught me sticking my fingers in her cake batter.”
D’Angelo raised an eyebrow. “One time?”
Alex snorted.
I threw a sheepish grin their way as I shrugged. “Maybe twice.”
D’Angelo’s eyes sparkled as he shook his head. “Your parents are waiting for you in the garden room. Would you prefer I escort you or shall you make your way on your own?”
“Garden room?” Alex mouthed, making me snicker.
“Thank you, D, but I’m pretty sure I remember the way.”
“Very well. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. Alex, pleasure to meet you.”
“Same,” Alex said with a polite nod. As soon as D’Angelo strode from the entryway, Alex turned to me. “What the hell is a garden room?” he whispered.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a room with a lot of windows that overlook the gardens. It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal,” he muttered with a wry grin. “There are a bunch of overgrown dandelions out my bedroom window because I’m behind in mowing the lawn. Should I start calling it my garden room?”
I frowned. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t had time to get to the lawn.” I should have, though. Between his class schedule, family obligations, work hours, and well, me, he barely had a free second to sneeze.
His eyes narrowed, and he pointed at my face. “No. Don’t even think about it.”
“What?” I said, trying for the same innocent look I gave the chef when she caught me sneaking the cookie batter. It didn’t work then, either.
“What?” he said in a horrendous imitation of my voice that had me laughing. “I know you, Ryder. Before we make it to the garden room, you’ll have somehow sent an entire team of landscapers to my house.”
“Alex,” I said in a placating tone as I took his hand in mine again and started toward the garden room. “Be reasonable. There’s no way I could set that in motion before we make it down this hallway.” But it was happening, and I’d find a way to arrange it before we left here tonight.
He stopped walking and tugged on my arm, causing me to spin his way and plow into his chest. “Wha—” I managed right before he grabbed my chin and placed a hard kiss on my lips. I blinked, and he released me before my brain could process the move, but as usual, my dick was ahead of my thinker and well on its way to embarrassing me in front of my parents.
“Um…” I swallowed as my head spun from the quick southward departure of blood. “What was that for?”
“It’s because I love you, Ryder. Now let’s get this shit show over with so we can go home, and I can show you how much I love you.” He took my hand and pulled me along to the garden room.
My mouth dropped, but no sound came out, probably because I stopped breathing.
He loved me.
Alex loved me.
Holy fucking shit, Alex loved me!
And he’d told me without a chance for me to reciprocate. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled up from low in my gut. What an Alex way to do things. No muss, no fuss, just drop the bomb straight-faced and without fanfare. I grinned as giddiness found its way into my bloodstream.
Alex loved me.
Now I could do damn near anything.
Side-by-side, hand-in-hand, we reached the garden room to find my parents seated next to each other on a hideous, large-print floral couch, sipping cocktails. My father’s walker rested nearby, a reminder he still had a road of recovery ahead of him. He sipped his drink with his left, nondominant hand because his right still had significant weakness and limited function. Hence, a specialized attachment on his walker was used to enhance his grip. His face, smooth due to bimonthly facials and years of Botox, drooped slightly on the right, but nowhere near what it had been months ago when he’d been hospitalized for a massive stroke.
The experience had been humbling for him on many levels, but no part more so than his inability to return to work. Sure, he’d had every state-of-the-art treatment available, the top-of-the-line equipment, and specialists flown in from all corners of the country, but when it came down to it, no amount of money could erase the medical event he’d experienced.
This might be the first time in his fifty-five years he’d been unable to have his way with the swipe of his black Amex.
My mother, on the other hand, looked as perfect as ever, with her blonde hair in a simple twist at the nape of her neck and her flawless, surgically enhanced face radiating a glow. The single strand of pearls around her neck matched the rest of her aesthetic—simple, chic, and very expensive. Not a brand name in sight. She embodied the expression wealth whispers. Think Stepford wife on steroids.