Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Really? No.” He nods with understanding. “Grandma never answers a question she doesn’t want to answer. She’s good at turning things around.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ask me something inappropriate,” he says.
“Uh…” I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Have you ever put anything in your ass?”
He laughs. “That’s your first question?”
“Are you doing it now? Or is that a legitimate response?” It’s a good strategy, actually. Smart. But it’s not his style, really. He’s not a strategic communicator. He’s earnest and in the moment, trying to tap into real emotions.
“It is what Grandma would say.” He laughs. “I guess I take after her.”
“No. She’d say something like, sweetheart, if you have the desire, you have to take the plunge. If not, don’t,” I say. “But I know what you mean.”
“She would.”
“Oh yeah, that’s a direct quote.”
He turns to me and raises a brow.
“Lexi asked her once,” I say. “She wasn’t about to ask Dad for sex tips.”
“Grandma gave her sex tips? No. Don’t tell me.”
“You don’t want to picture that?”
He shakes his head.
My stomach flutters and churns at the same time. There she is again. Lexi.
Sure, this is our apartment. She’s my sister and my business partner. It’s normal that she takes up space in my thoughts.
But here?
I don’t want her here, right now. I don’t want to wonder if he thinks of her. Or if he wants someone more like her.
I just want to be. For once, I just want to be.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on the moment. The savory scent of ham, the robust taste of tea, the warm sun streaming through the windows.
River, standing at the stove, in only his boxers.
The man looks just as nice from behind. Strong shoulders and back, tight ass, muscular thighs. Not that I’m objectifying him. Well, maybe a little.
Where were we?
Right. Moms. Big, emotional topics. Not the time to trace the tattoo curling over his shoulder.
Really, who needs big, emotional topics when we can touch? Breakfast first, maybe. Then touching. Sex. Nonverbal communication. Way better than verbal communication.
That’s science.
He doesn’t bring it back to moms or push away. “Can you set the table? No. You’ll argue with a direct order.”
“Here.”
“There, too.” His eyes flit to the bedroom door. “Not that I’m complaining.”
My chest flushes. “I have manners.”
He motions go ahead and show me. Which, yes, does make me want to prove him wrong. But only for a second. Only because, for so long, he’s seen me as a spoiled rich girl.
Even if he doesn’t now, he did. And I hated that he didn’t see me. Even if I was too scared to let anyone in.
Letting my Huntington training kick in, I set the table. Plates, mugs, silverware, napkins. Everything in place. Everything just so.
River meets me at the table with breakfast. Two perfectly arranged English muffins topped with ham, poached eggs, and hollandaise. Eggs Benedict. A fancy dish. What he thinks of me. Or maybe how he thinks he fits into this world.
No, we’re still Californians. Our idea of a fancy breakfast always includes avocado. This is his life in New York showing.
He can’t help but show flashes. That’s how much he belongs there.
“Have you cooked for your grandma, since you’ve been home?” I ask.
“A little,” he says. “She’s stubborn. She wants to prove she can take care of herself.”
“Maybe she wants to take care of you.”
“I’m twenty-six.”
“You’re still her grandson.”
“You let your dad take care of you?”
“Now, yeah,” I say. “In college, I tried to make it on my own.”
He raises a brow.
“Okay. I wasn’t totally on my own. He paid my tuition, but I tried to pay for the rest. I got a job at a lab. When that wasn’t enough, I worked nights at a bar.”
“That’s where you learned about cocktails?”
I nod. “They’re a formula. They make sense.”
“And you like things that make sense.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I already know the answer. No. He doesn’t. He likes magic. And magic can’t make sense, or it wouldn’t be magic.
He doesn’t answer.
I don’t ask him to. “I worked hard. I bought store-brand bread and Lipton tea.”
“How long did you last?” he asks.
“A semester,” I admit. “It’s too hard to work while going to school. I don’t know how anyone does it.”
“People do what they have to do to survive.”
“Why do you have a chip on your shoulder?” I don’t mean it as harshly as it sounds, but he doesn’t shrink from them. “About money?”
“Ida isn’t as rich as Mr. Huntington.”
“Sure, she bought the house a long time ago, when it was worth less. But she’s a successful writer. She makes a lot of money. Especially after that one TV adaptation.” One of the streaming networks made a series from her books. “I’ve seen her royalty checks.”
After my first business class, I asked Ida how money worked for her. We’d covered various arts but not from the perspective of an artist. I was curious to know averages. Though her numbers are far from the mean.