Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
The phone rings, and Jerry lets out a string of curses. “Hang on a second,” he grumbles.
“I’m probably going to be here late.” I shift Molly toward the glass door leading out of the shop. “You hanging with Hayden tonight?”
“Supposed to do a girls’ night in.”
“Good.” I brush her hair off her cheek. “Thanks for visiting me.”
“Will you come over tomorrow? Remy says he’ll be home early. I thought we could all do dinner and a scary movie together? Like we used to.”
That much time in Remy’s house, with him watching my every move? With Molly so close but untouchable? Sounds like torture. “Absolutely.”
“Good!” She leans up and kisses my cheek just as a horn bleats outside. “Can I text you later?”
“Any time you want.” I catch her hand, pulling her back. “Give me a better kiss goodbye.”
She slides her arms around my neck and tips her head, waiting for me to close the distance. I lean in and brush my lips over hers. Way too short.
Like a puppy left at doggie daycare, I stand and watch her jog out to Hayden’s car and fling herself into the front seat.
“Your buddy know about that?” Jerry asks.
How the fuck’d I forget that he’s standing like ten feet away? “Not yet.”
He whistles, low and teasing. “I don’t want to be around for that conversation.”
I jam my hands in my pockets and stare at Hayden’s car until it disappears around the corner. “You and me both.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Molly
Most of my friends hate dinner-night at home with their families.
Not me. I love it when Remy’s home for dinner instead of working at the bar until closing.
Even better when Griff’s here too.
No fights at The Castle. No clandestine motorcycle club meetings. Just dinner and movies on the agenda.
Since we’re all together, I pull out one of Nana’s cookbooks to celebrate. I search through the cabinets and drawers until I find her prized blue enameled cast-iron Dutch oven. Many Sunday dinners for our family were made in this heavy pot. Fond memories of my mother and grandmother flow through my mind. I wish I’d paid more attention when Nana tried to teach me how to cook. Usually I preferred sitting on the stool next to the counter and chattering away.
Tears sting my eyes. Why couldn’t we have had a few more years with my mother and grandparents? Why did cancer have to choose my mom? She was nothing but sweet, loving, and patient. Our father never really wanted kids and boy, did Remy and I feel it, especially after Mom died. As time passes, I remember her face less. Thankfully, all I have to do is look at the photos in the hallway to remember. Remy’s changed a lot of things since he moved into our grandparents’ house, but he’s never touched the photos.
Damn, cooking shouldn’t make me weepy.
“What’s all the noise out here?” Remy grins at me from the doorway.
I sniffle and force a bright smile. “Since we’re staying in tonight, I thought I’d make chicken and dumplings.” I pat Nana’s red-and-white cookbook with all the notes in the margins written in her precise script. Little tabs and sticky notes mark favorite recipes, and I flip through until I find the right page.
“Yeah?” Remy raises an eyebrow with interest. “You got everything you need?”
“I think so.” I took the morning shift at the grocery store and brought home supplies. Chicken, celery, onions, carrots, half-and-half, butter, garlic, fresh thyme, sage, and rosemary. I scoop each item out of the fridge and into my arms, then carry them to the prep counter.
“Need help?” Remy asks.
“I could use someone to chop veggies.”
“Griff! Get your ass in here!” Remy shouts.
I grab the bunch of celery and point it at my brother, fronds waving in the air. “God forbid you do any work in your own kitchen.”
“What?” Remy widens his eyes as if he’s perfectly innocent. “Two sets of hands will get it done faster than one, right? Then we can eat quicker.”
Laughing I set the vegetables on the counter in front of him. “Sure, big bro. You’ve got an answer for everything.”
“You called?” Griff steps into the kitchen, staring at me.
My lips part but no words form.
“No, I did.” Remy throws a bag of carrots at Griff, who lifts his hand and catches it without taking his eyes off of me.
My lips curve slightly. “Impressive.”
“Yeah? Try and catch this next.” Remy waves a chef’s knife.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn.
Griff stares my brother down, challenge glittering in his eyes.
“Am I really the youngest one here?” I snatch the knife out of Remy’s hand and slam it on the counter.
“Chill.” Remy pats my shoulder. “Griff knows I’m messing with him. I’d never harm his pretty, rugged face.”
Griff snorts.
“Whatever.” I shoot a sideways glare at my brother. “Are you chopping or yapping?”
“Aye!” He salutes me, grabs the knife, and moves down a few feet where he sets up a cutting board and lays out the carrots.