Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
He clears his throat before offering me the finished treat. “Probably needs a sec to cool.”
“That was by far one of the sexiest fucking things I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
Crimson coats his cheeks on a coy chuckle. “Females don’t usually say that shit to me until after I’ve taken my clothes off.”
I place my beverage down and transfer the dish into my possession. “How’d you learn to do that?”
“My dad.” An undeniable sadness glosses over his gaze. “Grilling together was always…our thing.” Rather than continue to make eye contact, he picks up another stick. “We did it all the time before my brothers were born. Back then, we’d hunt our own meat, cut it up ourselves, and roast it out by the lake while the sun went down.” A potato gets wedged onto the roasting tool. “When A.D. was born, those one-on-one moments still occurred, but a little less frequent. And once Z came along, they were more of an only on my birthday type of thing.”
“You resented them.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You resented him more.”
“I definitely didn’t say that,” Ptur mutters while grabbing a piece of meat to add to his kabob.
“How about you do say something then?”
“Family comes first. No matter what. It’s not always easy. It’s not always fun. Hell, it’s not even always feasible, but it is a must. And as the patriarch, it is up to you to enforce that rule even if it means sacrificing your own wants or happiness or peace in the process.” He lifts his gaze back to mine. “I don’t resent my father for not being able to prioritize something so insignificant in his pursuit to raise and guide an arrogance of dragons.”
“Except it wasn’t insignificant.”
The gentle acknowledgement wrinkles his forehead.
“Not to you.”
Sadness flashes in his stare.
“And it’s okay that you treasured those moments alone with him. It’s okay that you have something you love that you don’t have to share with your brothers.”
Shock and confusion collide in his widening gaze.
“You are allowed moments of so-called selfishness, Ptur, even as the big brother who sounds like he took on the role of being a father far before he was ready.”
He does his best to banish whatever feelings have been conjured and motions to the kabob in my grip. “Should be cool enough to try now.”
Rather than force more information from him, I redirect my attention to the food in my possession. The first bite of meat alone damn near knocks me into a food coma. It’s tender yet crispy. Somehow packed with garlic, butter, salt, and pepper flavoring in spite of the fact it wasn’t pre-seasoned. Chewing itself is a fairly moot point courtesy of the way it simply melts across my tongue making it hands down the most delectable thing I’ve tasted in my thirty-five years on this planet.
“Holy fuck, this is the best shit I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
A grumble of disapproval grinds against a groan that’s trying to be suppressed. “There are less torturous methods to convert me into a vegetarian, Pint-Sized.”
I snicker, wink, and get ready to try the potato. “Tell me more about grilling with your dad and maybe, if you keep feeding me shit this good, I’ll tell you about grilling with mine.”
Ptur’s grin slightly softens as he begins to reflect on what I assume are his fondest memories.
Tales of hunting wild creatures are told in tandem with additional cooking. Smiles flow freely between us along with the food. His stories are paused only to request ones from me and mine are delivered in such a way they can be redirected back to getting more from him. At one point—after challenging my date to a cherry tomato eating contest—I’m given the opportunity to plant my frame at his side to roast a kabob for myself. Heat from the fire smoothly sears the meat yet leaves me wanting to feel scorched in other places. His lustful watching of me and my prurient gazing of him causes the overcooking of the meat but neither of us seems to notice.
Or care once we do.
We share the roasted morsels, oscillating who pulls a piece off and who gets to savor watching the other enjoy devouring it.
Eating naturally leads to drinking and drinking absentmindedly leads to the two of us getting tipsy.
And touchy.
And very touchy.
Bond.
I ignore the voice, lean into his arm that I can’t recall wrapping around me, and offer the cup we’ve been sharing at the same time I playfully make an accusation regarding the hilarious stretch of recent stories he’s been unloading, “Have you ever not been kicked out of a bar?”
“Yes, but what’s the fun in going if there isn’t at least a little risk in that?” Ptur lightly laughs between sips. “Who wants to listen to someone talk about how they were politely asked to sit back down on the stool and finish their keg?”