Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
One thing about me, I am not afraid to cook. In fact, it relaxes me.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I don’t have to look to know who it is. Only one person calls me this early.
I answer on the second ring. “Morning, Honey,” I answer, letting my head fall back against the cushion.
“Well, good morning to you too,” she drawls in that Carolina twang she has despite my military career making her move all over the country until we finally settled in Haywood’s Landing, North Carolina before I retired and moved us to Salemburg. “You sound half asleep.”
“I was relaxing.”
My daughter lets out a sarcastic laugh. “You don’t relax, Pops.”
“I’m trying something new.”
She laughs loud enough to get the attention of anyone within a hundred feet. “Oh hush. I’m just checkin’ in. Wanted to make sure you got settled.”
Settled. Right. I thought of Holley, shivering by her damn car because life had apparently kicked her from three directions at once. Of pulling her into me last night, cold, stiff, startled, and realizing I didn’t want to let go of her. And then kissing her like I owned her mouth, like it was the most natural solution in the world.
My chest tightens at the memory. “Cabin’s good,” I share. “Quiet.”
“You need quiet. After everything you’ve been through, you need space to breathe.” She pauses. “And don’t argue with me, Pops.”
“I wasn’t arguing.”
“You were thinking about arguing.”
Fair enough. As my daughter, my oldest child she knows me better than I know myself some days.
She sighs softly, a shift from playful to the tender tone she uses only for those she loved. “I ordered groceries for you. Should be delivered in the next hour. Try to rest, Pops. You’re not getting’ any younger. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” I remark running my hand over my chin. “I’m not a spring chicken anymore. Noted. As for groceries, you didn’t need to do that.”
“I know,” she answers. “And yet I did. Funny how that works. I checked the weather there and also Bub told me you took your bike. Snow, motorcycles, and a mountain aren’t a good combination. I ordered the groceries to simplify things. And you prefer to cook over eating out, Pops. Tell me I’m wrong.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth by her challenge. “Thank you, Honey. How is Boots?”
“Bub is fine.” Bub is her baby brother, my youngest kid, my only son, Anthony Brocato Jr is finding his path in life. He’s young. Not exactly planned for Tammy Sue and I since Honey was already twelve when the two pink lines popped up. Now my son joined me in the Hellions MC. His road name is Boots, but to his sister he will always be Bub.
“Make sure he’s getting up for work. You know sometimes he forgets to turn his alarm backing on.”
“Mm-hmm. I got Bub handled. I need you to have a vacation where you turn off the thoughts of home. You better eat real meals and not that protein-bar crap. And don’t forget your vitamins. And—”
“Honey.” Her name comes out on an exasperated sigh.
“What?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re alive, Pops. You’re all me and Bub got left. I need you to take care of yourself. Mom would want you to take care of yourself.”
The air in my lungs gets tight. She doesn’t say things like this often. It hurts her as much as it hurts me to bring up her mom.
“I know,” I reply quietly. “And I appreciate it.”
“That’s all I want to hear. Now go on, let me get back to my morning. I got a Nomad needing shocks.”
“Of course you got a good hot rod in when I’m away.”
“Rest up, I got a full rebuild of that eighty-four Chevy Camaro in the back. They want a full resto-mod. I’m saving that one for you.”
“That a threat?”
“It’s a fact. You are the Camaro master.”
I chuckle. “Love you, Honey.”
“Love you too, Pops. And be nice to people up there. Not everyone appreciates your ‘I’m fine, leave me alone’ face.”
I groan. She swears I have resting dickhead face. “That’s just my face.”
“Well fix it.” She hangs up before I can respond.
I shake my head but still a smile plays on my lips.
Around noon, a knock sounds at the door. When I open it, a stack of grocery bags sat on the top step. No delivery driver waiting, just a truck rolling down the long gravel drive toward the main road. I don’t know how people do this grocery delivery stuff. Sure it’s convenient but what if your order is messed up?
I carry the bags inside, the familiar weight of good food grounding me. Honey didn’t buy cheap nonsense. She cooks the way her grandmother did—rich, hearty, and enough to feed a town. This means she completely overordered for my groceries.
I unpack everything onto the counter: fresh vegetables, spices, thick-cut pork chops, potatoes, real butter, chicken stock, tea bags and sugar, fresh herbs, even a small container of bakery cookies because she swears sugar keeps my attitude in check. I snort at it but I’m not going to argue her point. I’m also going to eat every single one of them even if I need to do push-ups for an hour to keep my Marine physique.