Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“What do you think?” I ask, wrapping an arm around her narrow shoulders.
She rests her head against me and sighs. “I think it looks nice. Don’t you?”
I bite back a smart-ass remark because this is important to her. She cares. I don’t understand why she gives a shit about a man who made her life hell, but she does.
“Yeah, it looks great,” I say. “I like this wreath better than the one you had for Christmas. It’ll hold up better against the wind.”
“I think you’re right. I got this one from Etsy, and the quality is amazing.”
“Do you want to do anything else while we’re here?” I look around the cemetery at the stones lined up like soldiers. Despite the bright flowers and colorful flags hanging from garden hooks, it’s still the most depressing place in the world. “We could hold hands and sing a song.”
She snorts, shoving me gently. “Why do you always have to be a shit?”
“It’s nature versus nurture. Bet you’re hoping it’s nature, huh?”
Mom shakes her head, ignoring me. “We changed the flowers and the wreath, hung the new flag, and installed the new solar lights,” she says, taking in our handiwork. “I don’t think there’s anything left to do.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I gather a few scraps of trash from around the base of the headstone and shove them in the shopping bag we used to bring the decorations from the car. Mom kisses her palm, pressing it onto the top of the stone, then she follows me through the cemetery to my truck in silence.
We climb in and get situated, and I crank the heat on full blast. “Are you good?”
She pats my hand as we leave the country church.
Mom always gets emotional when we visit the cemetery, which is reason enough not to do it. I think she finds closure in visiting Dad and taking care of his final resting place. It’s like she’s loving him when he can’t fight back. There’s something beautiful and heartbreaking about that at the same time.
“How were your cobblers?” I ask, trying to take her mind off the graveyard.
“Delicious, of course. I took them to the assisted living facility for Madge’s birthday. They were throwing her a get-together, and her niece called to see if I’d make the desserts because Madge just loves my baking.”
“Yeah, well, who doesn’t?”
She beams. “That’s high praise from Madge Randolph. She had a pie recipe featured on a bag of flour back in the day. That woman could cook.”
“Alfie told me to tell you that if you had an extra piece, he’d gladly take it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She huffs, falling back against the seat. “I would’ve saved him one. Maybe I’ll make him a whole cobbler. Does he like blackberries or would he prefer cherries?”
I glance at her and make a face. “How the hell would I know, Mom? Do you think we sit around chatting about what kind of fruit we prefer in our cobblers?” I roll my eyes playfully before looking back at the road.
“Maybe I’ll make both, and you can take him a piece and see which one he likes best.”
“Or not.”
She shrugs. “I can run them to the gym myself.”
“The hell you can.” I shake my head at her. If she thinks she’s setting foot in Alfie’s, she’s sadly mistaken. “Stay away from the gym.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, little boy.”
“Okay,” I say, teasing her. “Who’s being a shithead now?”
“Brooks Xavier Dempsey—watch your mouth.”
I laugh. “Listen, I love ya, and that’s precisely why you can’t go to Alfie’s. It would look horrible for me to beat the shit out of someone in my own camp—but I’d do it. I’d do it and not think twice. None of those fuckers are good enough for you.”
“And none of them are my age except Alfie.”
“So? Men are animals, and you’re hot.” I glance at her and smirk. “I mean, we share genetics, so, of course, you are.”
She hides a smile.
I make a right onto the highway toward town. The dreary sky and increasing winds hint at an incoming storm. It’s been one storm after another this winter, and I’d like to say I’m over it. But how can I complain when the last storm delivered a lingerie-wearing Dr. Audrey Van?
A grin slips across my mouth.
That woman is fascinating. Smart, but naive. Strong, yet skittish. I suspect that she’s capable of just about anything, yet seemed bewildered that I’d assume such a thing. It matches what Gray told me about her, but I’m having a hard time understanding how a woman so beautiful and brilliant could be so … insecure?
I grip the steering wheel.
And that list? What the fuck was that?
I thought it might be a story, at first. Maybe she was a closet fiction writer, and these were things her heroine was going to tackle. Because there was no way in hell I would’ve thought she needed to make having an orgasm with a man a task. There must be men lining up to have a chance with her. She could have her choice of any guy on the planet. If she’s not fighting them off with a stick, I call bullshit.