Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
After everyone hugged and kissed and cried (I did not do the third one, which, at this point in my infatuated existence, was a relief), we sat for a full English breakfast Mrs. Markham somehow whipped up in twenty minutes.
I never understood English breakfasts. Potatoes, beans, sausages, and black pudding were all lunch and dinner ingredients, unless your idea of fun was to clog your arteries with enough fat to fill a bathtub. Mrs. Markham also couldn’t be accused of being the best cook to grace this planet, as the sausage was both soggy and cold, the potatoes half-raw, and the black pudding . . . well, to be fair to her, I didn’t think anyone could make it edible.
Still, as we all sat at the round table, chugging screwdrivers, I was beginning to see the perks of this whole family-concept thing.
“So BJ doesn’t mind you rooming with a dashing young man like this?” Mrs. Markham motioned to me with her knife. Interesting table manners. I wondered if the Windsors approved.
Duffy rolled her eyes. “Riggs isn’t that young.”
“But he is that dashing.” Tim pointed at me with a sausage-laden fork. “And Brendan . . . well, I’ve met more confident blokes, let’s just say that.”
“Yeah, Duff.” Kieran sat back like a fat cat, grinning. “Doesn’t BJ care? I mean, what kind of boyfriend is he?”
Kieran and I shared a knowing glance. A nonexistent one.
Duffy licked her lips, pinking. “He’s fine with it.”
“And is he still in . . . what’s it called?” Her mom snapped her fingers.
“Denial about his receding hairline?” Kieran offered with a grin.
“Need to hurry up and pop the question?” It was Tim’s turn to ask.
“—Tibet, was it?” Mrs. Markham completed.
“Kathmandu,” Duffy corrected, turning bright red now. “He’s still in Asia, yeah.”
Kieran turned his attention to me.
“So Riggs, what do you do?” He chewed loudly, with his mouth open, just to piss people off, I suspected. He spoke like we hadn’t been planning and executing the Conquest of Shelby in the last few weeks. She was thawing real nice. He’d even managed to get a date with her next week.
I sipped my screwdriver, sticking to eating the eggs and hash brown on my plate.
“A photographer.” But he already knew that.
“That’s an interesting job!” Mrs. Markham said perkily.
“Not much money in it, though, right, son?” Tim popped a fried cherry tomato into his mouth.
“Not much,” I confirmed.
Tim nodded in approval. “Good. I like people who go after their heart’s desire without giving a toss about the paycheck.”
Now if only your stepdaughter was of the same mind.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked Tim.
“Fulfill my heart’s deepest, most passionate wish.” He opened his arms wide. “I make fish-and-chips.”
Laughing, I leaned in to give him a fist bump. “A divine mission.”
“I like to think of myself as a modern-day Jesus.”
“Riggs, do try your black pudding,” Mrs. Markham urged. “I know it looks a bit funny, but I swear it’s good.”
“Mum,” Duffy scolded, now bloodred with discomfiture. “Leave the man alone.”
“Actually, I was saving the best for last.” I smiled charmingly, picking up the round black thing between my fingers and bringing it to eye level. There was no way to sugarcoat it—it looked like crap. And I mean that literally. There were also yellow bits in it, which made it look like corn-infested shit. But for a reason beyond my understanding, it was important to me to win these people over.
Halting my breath, I shoved the whole thing into my mouth, chewed just enough to help it pass through my pipeline, and swallowed. I reached for the orange juice quickly, guzzling it.
“Delicious.”
“Thank you!” Mrs. Markham radiated joy. “Tesco’s finest.”
“You want to vomit, don’t you?” Duffy whispered through gritted teeth beside me.
“Very much.” I dropped my voice.
“Well, Mum, let me show Riggs to his room!” Duffy stood up, covering for me.
A minute later, I was kneeling in their bathroom, throwing up into their toilet while Duffy patted my head.
“There, there. Now that you survived Mum’s cooking, it is safe to say you are immortal.”
The Markhams had a tradition. They went apple-picking the first day of the season. Since Duffy wasn’t around for that this year, they decided to do it now that we were visiting.
“You don’t have to come, obviously.” Duffy was standing in the matchbox-size room they’d assigned for me, which used to be her room. She wore a yellow summer dress and looked like an orgasm waiting to be unleashed. “It’s just a silly tradition. You probably want to explore London.”
I drank her in from my spot on her childhood bed, arms propped behind my head. The room was so Duffy it was ridiculous. With stripy beige-and-lavender wallpaper, pleated curtains, and all her memorabilia organized in drawers labeled with the year they were from. There were also some Prince William posters I was sure she didn’t want to talk about.