Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“Where do you think you’re going?” Kennedy splutters.
“The kitchen. You said to come over later, right?”
“Maybe I’ll just give you a call tomorrow.” Pharmacy boy’s expression is sad but serious. Or seriously sad. Thank you for dinner,” he adds, trying a smile that comes off as brave. Urgh. “It was delicious.”
“What did you have?” Yes, yes. I know it’s not all about me, but I’ll be fucked if I’ll let it be even a little bit about him.
“Sausage and spinach pasta,” Drew replies. Then looks like he wished he’s swallowed his tongue instead.
“Sounds”—interesting—“yum. Got any left?” That’s right, little love, look at me. I’ll even take those narrowed-eyed glares that are set to kill. Not done, I wrap my hand around Kennedy’s upper arm and allow the screen door to swing closed with a creak and a thwap. “See you around, Drew,” I add happily through the mesh. Then I shut the door in his face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” As Kennedy pivots and I’m kind of surprised not to see smoke coming out of her ears. But I think the more important question is what do you think you’re doing, little love? Is it me or is it obvious that dinner is the only thing Drew has ever eaten in this house. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to answer me?” she demands.
“Well, I think that was what’s called getting rid of the competition. Not that he’s much competition because if he’d had any balls, he wouldn’t have left.”
Her expression is priceless. But because I like my balls where they are (and not lodged in my neck), I shouldn’t mention that she looks like a grouper on the end of a fishing hook.
“You’re right. There is no competition,” she grates out, her gaze flicking over me with manufactured disdain.
“Kennedy.” I curl my hands around her shoulders, my tone all I know you’re not an idiot, but . . . “I know there’s no competition, and you know there’s no competition. But I think it’s only fair you tell should him.”
“I’m telling you.”
I smile, tone deaf to her ridiculousness when she shrugs off my hands and storms past me into an adjoining room which is . . . the living room. A fireplace dominates the far wall, made from the stone equivalent of crazy paving. The sofa is bottle-green velvet, the fireside chairs mustard with stripes. It appears Kennedy’s design tastes are what you might call eclectic. Either that or she’s colour blind. There’s an aged-looking afghan draped over one chair and a throw cushion on the other with the printed likeness of Frieda Kahlo. Thanks to an old-fashioned floor lamp like my granny used to have, the artist looks as though she’s eyeballing me from beneath her monobrow. It’s all a bit whacky, but I think I love it, even if it makes me want to burst out into that Macklemore song about poppin’ tags in thrift stores. But it’s cosy, and the more I look, the more it grows on me.
Suddenly, Kennedy’s interior design skills are knocked from my mind as I consider the low lighting and the comfy couch. What the hell has been going on in here? Then I notice how the throw cushions are barely dented. Nah. Didn’t happen. If I’d been curled up next to her, those couch parasites so popular with the female gender would be smooshed to fuck or chucked all over. She’d be looking less pulled together, too. She’d be all plump-lipped and rumpled and would probably be wearing her T-shirt inside out, and she definitely wouldn’t be wearing any panties.
“I know I invited you,” she begins from the other side of the room.
“Yeah, you did.” With pretty specific timing. Suspicious, much?
“I also know it’s a little late, but I don’t want you to get confused about why.”
“You think because it’s nighttime, I might have dark designs?”
She links her hands in front of her, my mocking tone putting her on the back foot. “I just . . . I just wanted to make things clear.”
“You didn’t want Wilder to see me was what I’d thought.”
“Exactly. I’ll tell him about you, but not tonight.”
No, because tonight was more about you needing to put me in my place.
I turn to a dark-wood credenza laden with framed photographs, family snapshots, and images of Wilder spanning the years. The pull to examine each and every one is so strong. There’s also what looks like an old peanut butter jar among the frames. The lid is secured to the jar with a tonne of tape, and a square slit has been cut into the top of it. On either side of the slit reads the words SWEAR JAR penned in black Sharpie, but it would be ungentlemanly of me to remark upon the number of dollar bills it contains.