Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“You’re done,” Meanie said. “Get on out of here. We got more people to deal with.”
Momma smiled at Meanie. “Thank you very much. We appreciate your hospitality.”
“Where’s my Dum Dum?” Benji said sadly, his eyes wide.
“What’s he talking about?” Meanie demanded.
“The volunteers always give the boys a sucker,” Momma said. “Don’t be rude, Benji.”
“Candy?” Meanie said. “To rot their teeth so you’ll have to take them to a dentist you can’t afford? I don’t think so. Go on, now.”
Momma held her head high. “Come along, boys.”
We took the cart outside, and Momma loaded up our old car. She called it a station wagon. But she didn’t get in the driver’s seat. Instead, she grabbed our hands once again, and we walked back to the door of the food pantry.
“Brady, hold Benji’s hand,” she said to me. “You can see me through the glass. Stay here, and I’ll be right back, okay?”
As long as I could see Momma, it would be okay. She walked back into the food pantry and talked to a different volunteer. I held tight to Benji and waited. Soon a man walked up to Momma. They talked for a few minutes, but of course I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The man left for a minute, and then he came back and handed something to Momma. They shook hands.
Momma returned to us. “Were you good, boys?” she asked.
“Yes, Momma,” we both said.
“Good.” She held up a whole bag of Dum Dums! “You can each have one every night after supper until they run out.”
I went home happy that night. I might not have a dog, but I had a smiling momma and a Dum Dum every night.
And we never saw Meanie at the food pantry again.
Chapter Thirty
I leave for the day at six p.m., earlier than normal, but I want to see Skye. I’ve been thinking about her and the cornfield and the food pantry the better part of the afternoon. Plus, I want to fuck her. I really want to fuck her.
As Christopher drives me to her place, I absently pull up Instagram.
Skye has apparently taken my advice and turned her profile to public.
And it’s taken off.
She responded to a comment asking about her lip color on the post I’d tagged her in at the gala.
@krissmith4009: @stormyskye15 your lip color is gorgeous!
@krissmith4009 Glad you like it. It’s Susanne lip stain in Cherry Russet.
The selfie of Skye and Tessa has also exploded.
You look gorgeous! Beautiful ladies.
Wowza!
Who’s your friend? You’re both hot as hell.
And then—
You’re so lucky to be Braden Black’s girlfriend! #envious
I go rigid.
Apparently, Instagram thinks that Skye Manning is my girlfriend.
Oddly, I don’t hate the idea.
Christopher pulls in front of Skye’s building, and I call her.
“Hi, Tess,” she says into the phone.
“It’s not Tess.”
“Hi,” she says, her voice a bit breathless.
“I see you’re gaining quite a following,” I say.
“Yeah. It’s pretty weird.”
“Get used to it.”
“I’ll try. I can always put my account back to private.”
“You can,” I say, “but you won’t.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I could go into detail, but that’s for another time. “Just trust me. Do you want to get dinner?”
“I’m heating up leftovers.”
“Enough for two?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Great. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
“In three minutes? What—”
“I’m right outside your building.”
“How did you— Never mind. Christopher knows where I live.”
“He does, but I didn’t need him to find you. See you in a few.”
I exit the sedan and head up to Skye’s apartment. A minute later, I’m knocking on her door.
She opens it, looks me over, and sucks in a breath.
I try not to show how pleased I am at her reaction, but I fear she sees right through me. If I can tell what she’s feeling, can she tell what I’m feeling? I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that question.
I love that my appearance pleases her. I removed my tie in the car on the way here, and I unbuttoned the first few buttons of my white shirt. I’m still wearing my black suit jacket.
I stride in, making the room my own. I learned early on in business that you have to own every room you enter. People take you seriously when you make it clear you belong, even if you don’t feel as confident as you act. Confidence is an illusion—one I’ve perfected. My mother told me once that I had confidence and a knack for leadership. Apparently she was right.
Skye’s modest studio is a large closet compared to my place. Her queen bed is made, and a love seat sits adjacent to it. A small two-person table is arranged between the bed and the kitchenette.
The place suits Skye. Simple with a touch of elegance, as she sees herself. Except that Skye is anything but simple.
“Smells good,” I say.
“Beef stew. One of my specialties. My mom’s recipe, a staple from my childhood.”