Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
"Did you, now?" he asked, his one arm snaking around my back and giving me a squeeze. He reached for that one first, bringing it up to his mouth and taking a bite. "Fuck, woman. No way should your ass have been working in a fucking bank. Wasted talent."
I felt his compliment settle somewhere deep inside, seeming to break open and seep through my system, mingling into my bloodstream and becoming a part of me.
And maybe that was why I heard my mouth run away with me before my brain could weigh in on the situation.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Don't need to fucking ask me if you can ask me a question. Just ask," he said, putting down the Nutella tart and reaching for the strawberry one.
"Why did you come to live with your uncle when you were eighteen?"
There was a short pause. It was barely five seconds, but it was long enough to make me feel like I should have kept my mouth shut. "Ella's been talking, huh?" he asked, but went on before I could say anything. "I was seventeen," he surprised me by going on, "not eighteen. I ran away from home. If you can call it that at that age."
"Why?"
"Dad was a fuck up. Mom was too jaded to give a fuck that he whipped my ass every time the mood struck. Which was often. I got old enough, I got wheels, I got the fuck out of that shit situation."
"You and your uncle were close?"
"Not at first. I was a shit. No manners..."
"You? No manners? I can't believe it!" I teased and he surprised me by chuckling.
"Yeah, well, think of a testosterone-flooded, immature, headstrong version of me with a massive chip on his shoulder..."
"Your poor uncle," I said, smiling a little at the idea.
"He took me in under the understanding that I would earn my keep, do what I was told, and respect my aunt."
"Reasonable."
"You'd think. I bitched about it, but it was that or back to the shithole I came from and I knew enough about my uncle to know he could give me opportunities I could never find anywhere else."
"Was he your maternal or paternal uncle?"
"Maternal. But he and my ma had a falling out when I was still biting ankles. Probably over money knowing the two of them. My dad couldn't keep a job and my mom never tried to get one. And my uncle didn't believe in loaning money to family. He knew that once you started, there was no stopping," he added, giving me another squeeze. "He and my aunt Mandy couldn't have kids. I think they were happy to have my surly ass around, no matter how big a fuck I was."
"Mandy?" I repeated.
"Yeah my uncle and his wife had one of those stories every woman thinks that, if she looks for long enough, she will find."
"What story is that?" I asked, knowing damn well what he meant.
"Babe, you're favorite movie is Beauty And The Beast, you know exactly what story I am talking about. The great love story. The happily ever after. Until Mandy took down with cancer."
"Oh, Byron..." I said, detecting a hint of pain there, whether he intended to share that with me or not.
"It was quick, not some awful, drawn-out affair. But my uncle just... couldn't take it. His heart gave out just a couple months later." Unsure what to say, if there even was something to say to that, I turned my head slightly and pressed a kiss underneath his clavicle. His arm tightened around me again. "Long time ago, Prue. Don't feel sorry for me."
"I don't feel sorry for you. I feel sympathetic for what that must have been like. It's different."
"If you say so," he said, but the cockiness wasn't in his tone. He reached for the remote and flicked through a couple of channels. Figuring that was the end of our little sharing circle, I turned my head slightly and watched him channel surf.
"Hey!" I snapped, reaching out and making a grab for the remote.
"What?" he asked, sounding amused.
"You just turned off Don't Trust The B."
"I turned off what?" he asked, hand closing tighter around the remote as I tried to pry it from his fingers.
"Don't Trust The B In Apartment 23," I clarified. "It's a generational modern classic that didn't get the love it deserved and you just shut it off," I said, watching as he stretched his arm out toward his side, out of my reach.
"Babe... I'm not watching some show with fucking eleven syllables in its title."
"It's way better than this Forensic Files crap," I objected. "There's enough awful in the world. I don't need to watch shows about it. Now give me..." I started, throwing half my body over his to lunge for the extended remote. "Yes!" I hissed as my hand closed around it. But then I was flying backward, hitting the mattress hard, with Byron's body suddenly covering me, a big, white-toothed smile on his face. "I still got the remote," I pointed out, wiggling it around as I smiled up at him.