Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
She nods seriously. “Yeah. That kind of good? The kind where he’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of come to life? That would be scary as hell to lose.”
There’s a quiver in her voice that makes me wonder if this is about more than me and Grammercy.
I know there was a guy in Makena’s past, before her asshole ex-husband, but I don’t know his name. She just calls him “Mr. Perfect,” the boy from culinary school, who was her dream guy. Except the part where he showed up when she was only nineteen and not ready to promise anyone forever, not even Mr. Perfect.
She doesn’t mention him much, but when she does, there’s a grief lingering beneath the words that’s not there when she talks about her ex-husband or former boyfriends.
“Don’t rush it,” she adds, her eyes shining. “Keep loving him and trusting that love is enough. The truth will come out when it’s time, and I, for one, think you two will get through it just fine.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Love you, friend.”
“Love you, too,” she says.
Before I can ask if she needs to talk, she’s slipping through the door, already halfway to the elevator before I can think of something to say.
Making a mental note to follow up with her later, I lock up, turn off the light, and head to bed, where I lie awake for a long time thinking about the man I love.
The man who gives my baby another adult to love.
The man who loves my daughter with an uncomplicated purity that’s a testimony to the rare kind of man he is.
Grammercy Graves isn’t just one in a million.
He’s one in a billion.
And maybe that’s what terrifies me most. If this love slips through my fingers, I can’t imagine ever loving another man with anything close to the devotion that pulses through me every time I see his face.
No other man will ever deserve my love like this. No other man could melt me with a single kiss.
No other man will ever feel like family, not the way he does.
The knowledge sits heavy in my chest, assuring me that following Makena’s logical, practical advice is impossible.
I have to tell him.
Soon.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
MAKENA
It’s Saturday night, the one night of the week when I can stay out as late as I want, and I’m spending it in a place that smells like every bad decision I’ve ever made, soaked in day-old beer.
But what can I say?
I love The Brass Monkey.
It’s like me—a little quirky, a little broken, definitely not winning any fashion awards, but a lot of fun.
I push through the door into a wall of noise. The sound of pinball machines competes with drunk male laughter, the mechanical wheeze of the Borris the Bucking Bull, and someone butchering “Crocodile Rock” at the karaoke machine onstage. The sticky floor grabs at my sneakers all the way to the bar, as if the building itself is trying to warn me that there are better places to be.
Perhaps, Building, perhaps.
But do those other places have Trash Pandas on special every Saturday?
I think not.
I claim a barstool with minimal duct tape damage and shout to be heard over the guy howling “Wah wah wah wah wah,” into the mic, “Trash Panda, Cobb, make it a double with extra stick.”
Cobb, the sweetest former motorcycle club member ever to transform his love for animals into a chaotic, animal-themed dive bar in the suburbs, flashes me a gold-toothed grin. “Coming right up, Mack. Good to see you, girl! Been too long.”
As he turns away to make my drink, the anxious-looking woman next to me in jeans and a sparkly tank top hisses, “Sorry, but could you tell us what’s in the Trash Panda?” She motions to the menu, a simple list of the cocktails on one side with prices on the other. Technically, Cobb is supposed to list all the ingredients, but following rules has never been his strong suit. “There are no descriptions, and the bartender is so…busy.” She glances at Cobb’s broad back, covered only by a scarred leather motorcycle jacket.
Cobb is a massive beast with a craggy face, a scar across his forehead, and the kind of muscles that threaten a beating if a patron steps out of line. He’s also a secret cuddle bear who goes flea market hunting with his husband every weekend and donates a third of his proceeds to youth homes—hence the dilapidated state of the bar.
But I’m not about to spoil a tourist’s “dive bar” experience with a glimpse behind the big, scary bartender curtain. Grinning, I say, “Sure! The Trash Panda is whiskey, coffee liqueur, a splash of root beer, and a touch of whatever well liquor Cobb is trying to get rid of, on the rocks.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.” Her upper lip curls as she casts a glance at the woman behind her, also in sparkles, also looking like she read about The Brass Monkey in an “off the beaten track” guide and is now regretting her decision to leave Bourbon Street.