Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 139088 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139088 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
I took a deep breath because this was all kinds of no fun to relive, and kept at him.
“It hurt enough the first time, I couldn’t go through it again. And now, through that hurt, I’ve done stupid shit that’s getting in the way of your relationship with him, not to mention Gemma.”
I let that hang, in case he wanted to slide something in there.
He didn’t.
Per usual.
“But he and I did eventually talk,” I reminded him. “He told me he wanted me in his life. He wanted me to be his friend. He wanted us to figure that out. I agreed, then I blew it. Now, he’s been shot and I have to instigate damage control. For me, and it appears, for the two of you.”
“You let me handle my shit with Knox,” Brady ordered.
“Your call, but are you hearing me?”
He seemed torn, like he wanted to say something, and when he spoke, what he said wasn’t what he wanted to say.
“I’m hearing you, Loon.”
I gave him a small smile. “I’ll miss flirting with you. You’ve kept my skills sharp.”
He shook his head, a small smile on his mouth too, and he reached for a truffle fry.
“We’re gonna get through this,” I told him.
He gave me a penetrating stare.
And then he said, “I fucking hope so.”
“I’m gonna make it so.”
Another penetrating stare, before an ominous whispered repeat of, “I hope so, babe.”
I grinned hugely (and fakely at him).
He stared at that too.
Then shook his head and kept eating.
EIGHT
NICE CHAT
Knox was at the stove making scrambled eggs that smelled yummy.
Jacques was at Knox’s feet, naturally, because there was a stack of bacon Knox had fried sitting on the counter by the stove, and both my boys thought I didn’t know this, but I saw Knox had already dropped three broken off pieces to my dog.
I was letting them bond and standing in the open fridge.
“Where’s your grape jelly?” I asked, and not only because I was on toast duty for breakfast.
“I don’t eat grape jelly.”
Slowly, my head turned so I could look at him.
He was scooching very fluffy-looking eggs around the skillet. He’d sautéed mushrooms before, added them to the eggs, and it looked so good, I was about to fall face first into the pan.
“You don’t eat it because you have the body of a god and grape jelly messes with your six-pack? Or you don’t eat it because you don’t like it?”
He looked to me. “I don’t like it.”
That was when I feigned having a heart attack, hand pressed to my chest, reeling into the counter, the whole show.
He grinned at me.
“That’s…that’s…un-American,” I declared.
“Not quite,” he replied.
“It so is. How did you get into the army not liking grape jelly?”
He was still grinning.
God, I liked that look on his face.
“They didn’t ask,” he said.
“You’re telling me the United States Army does not have the question, ‘Do you like grape jelly, and if not, please see a member of personnel immediately so we can take you directly to counselling?’ on the application.”
“Stop being a smartass,” he said, humor heavy in his tone. “I’ll grab some when I swing by the store after work.”
You had to love a man who loved the grocery store.
Or at least I was finding this was the case.
I removed myself from my press on the counter, went to him and cozied up to his side.
“Thanks, baby,” I whispered.
“Anything, honey,” he whispered back and dipped in for a kiss.
When his lips hit mine…
I returned it.
The next morning, Jacques was straining at his lead on Knox’s front walk, proving that animals had very good memories.
Knox’s door opened before we got there, and he was standing in it, sans crutch, something that made me frown. Then he did a squat, something that made me frown harder, but I let go of Jacques’s leash so I could put him out of his misery, and he could run to say hi to his Uncle Knox.
They had a man-and-dog love session complete with face kisses (that was all Jacques) before Knox straightened with Jacques under his good arm.
Fortunately, the other one was still in a sling.
But picking up my dog?
And that squat?
“Are you supposed to be doing squats?” I demanded.
“I see you haven’t gotten over your pathological need to baby me.”
I answered his question by asking, “Where’s the crutch?”
“You get flesh heals, right?”
“You were shot all of five days ago.”
“And my physical therapist knows what I can and cannot do, and I can navigate short distances without it.” His brows rose. “Would you like to contradict her?”
“Ugh. Get out of the way. I need to set up Jacques.”
He got out of the way, but he did it with his lips twitching, something I decided to let slide.
When I made it inside, I was pleased to see he hadn’t overtaxed himself by making me breakfast again.