Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! I’m so sorry! We went outside to do some kid yoga, and I totally forgot,” she explains while she walks with the pan to the sink, turns on the water, and soaks the smoking remains of what was once cauliflower. The sizzling sound of water hitting a hot metal pan fills the quiet room, along with a burnt, smelly, steamy smoke that has the potential to set off the now silent smoke detector again. I do the only thing I really can do, which is to continue fanning.
“Oh, Auntie Kay, what are we going to eat now?” Rachel asks. She would have been the only one of us to attempt to eat one of Kaleigh’s creations.
Kaleigh slaps her hands together. “Oh! I have some tofu we can cut up and…” Before she can even finish that sentence, Gabe and I both yell a combined firm yet panicky, “No!”
I look over the mess that is my kitchen and begin a mental count to ten. “Okay, I’m going to change. Gabe, start your homework. Rachel, go start studying your spelling words. You”—I point at my sister—“clean up this mess. I’ll find something to throw together for pasta.”
She groans. “I don’t have any gluten-free pasta here.”
I look at her. “Okay, so you’ll be going home. Got it.” I point to the kitchen. “Clean this mess up before you leave.”
I head upstairs and change out of my work clothes, throwing on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt. I’m in mom mode now. I get back downstairs and see that Gabe is sitting at the table doing his homework, while Rachel is in the living room writing her words, and Kaleigh is putting things in the dishwasher. “Oh, good news,” she informs me. “I found some rice, so I’ll throw whatever sauce you make on there. Yumm-O.”
I shake my head, laughing at her as I start prepping the veggies to go into my pasta primavera. After I’ve sautéed everything and added the pasta, I toss it with a bit more olive oil and some parmesan. “Kay, set the table,” I call over to her.
She looks over my shoulder and complains, “I can’t eat that. You put cheese in it.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper to her. “I won’t turn you in to the vegan police. We’ll pretend it never happened.” I serve up some pasta onto plates for the kids.
I hear the fridge open, followed by a squeal from behind me. “Score,” she squeals, taking out one of her frozen meals from the freezer. “Look! Tofu ravioli! Saved!” She does a little dance on her way over to the microwave, raising her hands in the air and shaking her ass as she pops it in. “Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah!” She continues dancing till the microwave beeps.
She pulls it out, peeling off the filmy plastic cover, and waves it under my nose. “Smells so good, right?”
I raise my eyebrows and nod yes, but I’m totally lying. Throughout the meal, the kids tell me about their day. Rachel tells me that today someone threw up in class because someone else farted. Apparently, this is hilarious to her, since she is in stitches about it as she retells the story.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, I’ve got the kids bathed and tucked into their beds. I’m ready to pass out, but I come down the stairs to lit candles and a full glass of a crisp, perfectly chilled white wine. “Aww, if you weren’t my sister—and I were into chicks—I’d make you my woman,” I swoon, grabbing my glass and curling up on the couch with my feet under me.
“So, tell me about this boss of yours?” she prompts as she sips her own wine.
“Oh, where do I start?” I close my eyes as I try not to picture him staring at me. Trying even harder to not picture him looming over me. Definitely trying really, really hard to not picture him taking off his clothes while he looms over me and stares.
“Good-looking?” she asks.
I nod my head yes and finish off my glass of wine in one long, satisfying drink. I pick up the bottle, pulling the cork out with a pop, and pour myself another glass. “Too good-looking.”
“Fit or chunky?” she asks, and now I know what she’s doing. Small questions now, big discussion later.
“Fit,” I answer, pausing to sip another glass that’s already half drained. “Very fit.” I think the wine is hitting me pretty fast, because I look around next before I whisper, “I think he has a six pack.” Then I finish the remaining wine in my glass.
“Hair color? Eye color?” She fills up my glass again.
“Brown and hazel-green with gold specks.” I drink a little more.
“Facial hair? Would you get a burn from his beard or not?”