Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Our route takes us right by the front hall. It’s a surprise, however, when the doorbell rings. My steps falter.
“Ignore it,” August says at my back. He’s got me now, swinging me up into his arms to kiss me swift and deep. The bell rings again.
“It’s Jan’s house,” I say against his lips. “We can’t leave it.”
“Jan isn’t even here,” he grumps.
But I’ve already slipped free, my sense of politeness prompting me to answer. In retrospect, the ringing bell should have been our first hint of disaster. After all, as with our houses, there’s a nice big gate to keep strangers out of January’s as well. It stands to reason that whoever is ringing the actual doorbell at the very least has the code to get through the first barrier.
None of this occurs to me. And the very last thing I expect is to see my mother and his standing on the stoop and wearing twin expressions of impatience.
August comes skidding up behind me, his hand wrapping around my waist and pulling me back against his chest, then sliding under my shirt to palm my belly.
“Wait for me,” he chides with a laugh, burrowing his face in my hair. “God, you’re slippery.” He suddenly catches sight of our parents and freezes.
“August,” Margo says. “Penelope.”
“Babies!” my mother exclaims happily.
With a dramatic shudder, August looks around at the air above him as though searching for something. He notices us staring and gives himself a little shake. “Sorry, I could have sworn I heard the Psycho music playing just now.”
Biting my lip, I turn my head to avoid meeting anyone’s eye.
Margo’s droll voice is unmistakable. “You see what I deal with, Anne? I raised five kids, and every one of them a smart-ass.”
My mom shakes her head in sympathy.
August, however, decides to poke the bear and places a hand over his heart with a wounded expression. “But, Ma, it’s what you told us to do!”
“Oh, I told you?”
He gives her an angelic smile. “You were always saying, don’t be a dumbass. Ergo it stands to reason . . .” Smile growing, he spreads his arms as if to say, and here we are.
There’s a small beat, one in which I fear for August’s life, but then Margo barks out a laugh, and shakes her head. “And every one of you got your father’s charm. Damn it.”
She steps in, and August ducks his head to give her cheek a kiss. “But I got the most, didn’t I, Ma?”
“Sure, honey.” She pulls him close and gives him a long hug before mussing his head. “Smart-ass.”
“Just like you taught me.”
“Hmm. You have whipped cream on the tip of your nose.”
I have the pleasure of seeing August blush bright red.
“Oh, dear,” Mom murmurs. The wicked gleam in her eyes tells me she’s enjoying the hell out of it.
August grimaces, and I burst out laughing. He gives me a look that promises creative payback, and in return, I grin with glee. That is until my mother’s droll tone breaks through my high humor with all the dryness of desert sand.
“Your blouse is unbuttoned, Penny Lane.”
Shit.
August
“And as usual,” says my father from the drive, “I’ve got the bags.”
I empathize.
Pen, however, utters a mortified gasp and quickly turns toward me to button up her shirt, as Dad trudges up the stairs. She flashes me a death glare that promises retribution. But I can only grin. I’m not the one who started a cream war.
All right, so I am the one who started taking off her shirt. Maybe I do deserve the glare. I kiss the crown of her head in penitence.
“You’re a big strong man,” my mother is deadpanning to my father. “A few bags won’t kill you.”
“Woman, I’ve the knees of an eighty-year-old.”
“I’ll remember that later, when you—”
“Hey, Pop,” I cut in quickly. “Let me get those.” Anything not to hear about “later.”
He gives me a smug look and tosses all three bags my way. With a grunt, I accept my fate, adjusting my grip, then stepping aside to let them in.
“Caught them fooling around, did you?” he says to Mom and Anne with a grin that is way too familiar.
If anyone ever wants to know how I’ll age in thirty-odd years, they need only take a look at my father. I’ve got no complaints. He’s fit and strong—despite his whining. His once dark hair is now steel colored but thick and full. All of us boys look like him. Sure, there are some differences, but overall the gene pool is potent on the Luck side.
Pen turns a lovely shade of pink and refuses to meet anyone’s gaze.
While her mother scoffs. “I thought this engagement thing was supposed to be a charade.”
“It is,” Pen hisses, still put out from being half undressed. “At least the engagement part.”
She’s been very insistent on clarifying that lately. And can I blame her? There is a huge difference between being engaged and being . . . whatever it is we are. What are we, exactly? I like to say she’s mine and I’m hers. Period. And I don’t really think she’s angling for marriage or upset that there isn’t one forthcoming. No, it’s that damn lie that brought us together still haunting us in subtle ways.