Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“No!” the boys all cry in unison.
“Oh . . . we’re taking it back,” Tristan hisses through gritted teeth. “We’re taking it back completely built, and I’m going to stick it in the old buzzard where the sun doesn’t shine. I’m putting an engine on this mofo, and we’re going to fly it through his damn shop window.”
Patrick looks up at Tristan. “What, in the nighttime?” He frowns as he climbs onto his lap.
“Yeah, Tricky, that’s it. Nighttime,” he mutters, distracted.
“Why do you dislike this shopkeeper so much?” I ask as I continue to chop.
“He was a jerkoff,” Tristan mutters.
“Tristan . . . language,” I remind him.
He looks up and frowns. “Jerk off isn’t a swear word. It’s a verb, Claire . . . a doing word.”
I roll my eyes, and Fletcher chuckles.
“If you can’t say it in church, it is a swear word,” Patrick announces.
“I’m pretty sure that priests know the meaning of the word,” Tristan mutters dryly.
“Why didn’t you look at the instructions before you bought it?” I ask.
“I would have, except these aren’t instructions.” He holds up a bound book. “These are directions on how to go insane. People have been institutionalized while reading this book, Claire.” He flicks through the book in disgust. “Nobody can understand these instructions. The smartest man in the world couldn’t.”
I smile. So damn dramatic. “I thought you were the smartest man in the world,” I say.
“Well, precisely. I am,” he adds. “But how can I put something together when I can’t even understand the stupid instructions?”
“Give me that,” Harrison sneers as he snatches the booklet from Tristan. He studies the pictures and then frowns and begins to go through the bags again.
“Watch out, Tricky.” Tristan taps his little lap sitter. “Hop up, buddy. I need a coffee.” He stands and grabs a mug from the cupboard.
“You don’t want a glass of wine?” I ask.
He looks at me deadpan as he begins collecting what he needs for his coffee. “Do I appear to be relaxed to you, Claire? Does this look like a relaxing moment in time?”
I smile as I stare at him. He’s in navy boxer shorts, hair all messed up from nearly pulling it out. His sleepy orgasm glow is long gone, even though it was only a little while ago. I giggle.
“What?” he mutters as he pours the coffee into his cup.
“Maybe this model thing wasn’t such a great idea?” I say.
“We’ll get it,” he says with renewed determination as he stirs his coffee. “If it’s the last fucking thing I do,” he whispers under his breath. “And it might be.”
I kiss his shoulder, and it momentarily snaps him out of his stress. He kisses my forehead. “Stop distracting the genius at work,” he replies as he goes back to the table.
I giggle and look up to see that Fletcher has just been watching our interaction.
He gives me a lopsided smile and turns his attention back to the model.
A frisson of guilt runs through me. Is it weird for him seeing me with another man?
Should I talk to him about this?
What would I say? Hmm . . . I’m going to have to think about this in great detail. I don’t want to overdramatize it, but then I don’t want to sweep it under the rug either.
“That’s it!” Harry yells.
“What is?”
“The bags—they are the wrong colors compared to what’s in the instructions. That’s why nothing is adding up. It’s all labeled wrong.”
“What?” Fletcher frowns.
“The red parts are orange, and the orange parts are red. The black parts are white, and the white parts are gray. That’s why we can’t find all the pieces. The colors are all wrong.”
Tristan punches his fist. “Why you . . . tick tock . . . old man.”
“Yeah,” Harrison growls. “Tick tock.”
“Hmm.” The stylist’s eyes roam up and down my body as she circles me. “We have a lot to work with here.” She fiddles with my hair and tucks it behind my ears. She messes it up with her fingers as she inspects me in great detail.
My eyes flick to Marley, and she gives me two thumbs-up, the universal symbol of “You can do this.”
It’s Wednesday, and I’m at the dreaded appointment with the personal stylist. “You’re gorgeous, Claire; there is no doubt about it. Your bone structure is flawless, and you have a beautiful figure. But you don’t dress accordingly. Why don’t you show it off more?”
“Oh.” I shrug bashfully.
“You need to wear more fitted things.”
“I just don’t want to look like I’m trying to be young,” I reply meekly.
“You are young, Claire. You’re only what? Early thirties?”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
She smiles as she runs her hand down my shoulder and readjusts my bra strap. “I style eighty-year-olds. Trust me. You are young.” She smiles as she stands back to look at me. “Now, what do you need?”