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)
“What did you shift?” I asked cautiously.
“Clothes in the closet.” He was watching me closely. “And the drawers. Shit in the bathroom.”
Was I feeling pressure in my head?
Yes.
Yes, I was.
“I wish you’d have waited for me,” I pushed out.
“I figured that when I saw your closet was organized by color, season and occasion. Short sleeves. Long sleeves. Fancy or casual. And the state of your drawers made me understand we need to have a conversation about seeing someone to discuss symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
“It’s just my clothes,” I assured him. “And my makeup,” I added. “And anything to do with body and skincare,” I finished, deciding not to tell him (now) how I felt about my spice drawer in the kitchen.
“I don’t give a shit where my stuff is, just that it’s put away. Growing up, after Mom left, our house was always a mess. Gypsy and I would try, but Dad, Crew and Poe cottoned on we liked order, and just to fuck with us, they did everything in their power to give us anything but. Since they had a posse who were as big of assholes as they are, it was easy for them to do it, and for the most part, the place was a filthy pit. So we eventually gave up.”
And now I knew why he always went to bed with a sparkling-clean kitchen.
At that, I moved to him and curled up next to him, pressing my hand into his abs.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He curved an arm around my shoulders. “Just an added layer of their shit. Heads up, there are a fuck ton of them.”
“I’ll have a look at what you’ve done later. We need to go to the grocery store. Do you still want to go? Or did you and Cap take care of it?”
At that, his eyes lit. “Fuck yeah. Cap and I just swung through a Walgreens. I haven’t been to the store since before I got shot.”
He seriously got off on grocery shopping, and now I worried that was some residual damage from his growing-up years too.
“Yes,” Knox said.
I focused on him to see him focused on me. “Yes, what?”
“Mom always used to take Gypsy and me to the store with her. It probably won’t surprise you, Dad wasn’t real hip on keeping food in the house for his kids. It was mostly pizza deliveries, or Chinese or Mexican takeout. Cereal for breakfast and sometimes lunch too. When I could drive, I took Gypsy to the store. We’d cook together and pretend we were an actual family, not a fucked-up disaster.”
I wondered if this shit would keep gutting me as bad as I was bleeding for him right then.
It probably would.
“Baby,” I said softly.
“Always liked the store. The endless possibilities. What you could cook. What you could eat. What to always have around because it made home feel like home.”
“Apple butter,” I deduced.
“Yeah,” he replied then dipped his head to the coffee table. “And ranch dip and Ruffles.”
I emblazoned this on my brain so I’d never forget, and our house would never be without any of those things.
“You ready to go or are you in the middle of something?” I asked with a glance to the TV.
“Let’s go,” he replied, pushing up to his feet and taking me with him.
He switched off the TV.
Jacques trotted in from his mysterious sojourn in the bedroom (okay, it wasn’t that mysterious considering I knew he liked to snooze on my pillow, or Knox’s), his doggie senses alerting him to his people’s activity.
“We’re going to the store,” I told him. “Hold down the fort.”
He barked.
Since I hadn’t gotten a hello, I went to him, picked him up, gave him a cuddle then set him down.
During this, Knox put on his boots and grabbed our grocery list.
Knox and I headed out to the Prius.
We went to Fry’s.
We loaded up with food, including a backup jar of apple butter, bag of Ruffles and tub of dip.
We headed back to the house and dragged it up.
We put it away.
We went together to take Jacques on a Sunday afternoon walk.
When we returned, Knox wandered back to a football game (or whatever).
Jacques and I wandered back to my bedroom.
I took issue with how crunched my tees were in their single drawer (when they used to have two), so I set about concocting the perfect fold so they all fit and I could see them (I licked it).
I then checked his drawer and saw he’d formed it in three sections: boxer briefs, shorts, and tees. But they were all scrunched up and you had to shove them down to push the drawer in. Therefore, I took everything out, refolded, put it back, and he had enough room to add a couple more tees, pairs of socks and undies.
Onward to the closet, and since Knox had noticed my system, he hadn’t fucked it up, it was doable.