Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
I grinned at her, still shocked anyone couldn’t love that little face. She was pure sunshine.
“What are you hungry for?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Pandcakes!”
I laughed. We had “pandcakes” every Sunday. They were a favorite for all of us.
The sound of metal crutches met my ears, and Evan appeared in the doorway. He regarded us with a grin. “Did I hear the word pandcakes?”
I stood. “You did. Come join us, and I’ll start them.”
“Bacon?” he asked hopefully.
Luckily, tips had been good again. “Yep.”
“Awesome.” He sat down beside Lucy. “Hey, Lucy-loo. What’s shaking?”
She giggled, and my heart melted watching them. They were like brother and sister. He taught her video games, ever patient with her disability, and she was getting better all the time. He read to her, watched TV shows he had no interest in because she loved them. He watched over her. She looked at him as if he hung the moon, not caring that he walked with crutches or that outside the house he was so shy he could barely speak. She waited by the window every day for the school bus to drop him off, not caring it took him a long time to get down the steps or hobble up the sidewalk. Here, he was her Evan, and she adored him.
And I adored all of them.
An odd thought jiggled in my head as I gathered the makings of our Sunday morning feast.
How would Ronan react to them?
Chapter Five
Ronan
Tuesday took forever to arrive.
Twice, I drove past the diner on Saturday, but I didn’t stop. I saw Beth through the windows. The first time, the place was busy, and I saw three other servers, all rushed off their feet. The second time, it was slower, but there were only two of them then, and I knew she wouldn’t have time to talk to me. Feeling like a stalker, I drove out to Port Albany. I walked around my finished house, knowing I needed to buy some more furniture and make the decision to move permanently. The kitchen was well equipped, but the only things I had in the house were a bed and a large chair in the living room. It sat in front of the huge bay window overlooking the water. I loved to sit and watch the changing skies, the way the waves hit the shore, and how the color of the water altered with the light. Clouds fascinated me, and I often watched them moving across the sky, sometimes puffs of white, other times dark and stormy. Watching the weather change over the water was something I never got bored of, no matter the season. I liked being here. The offices of ABC would open here soon, and I really didn’t want to make the commute daily.
Except suddenly, I wasn’t as anxious to move. Dark eyes and wild curls the color of sunlit sand came to mind, and I had to shake my head at the ridiculousness of those thoughts.
I didn’t even know her.
“That’s what Tuesday is for,” the voice in my head whispered.
I heard the light tap on the front door, and my mom walked in, holding a plate.
“I saw your car. I thought you might be hungry,” she said with a smile.
My mother, Cami Callaghan, was an elegant, talented woman. Always dressed to impress, yet somehow never over the top, she was astounding. Having given birth to five kids in three years, she was simply extraordinary the way she handled all of us and our father. He was a handful just on his own.
He adored my mother, and she was equally as passionate about him. They were great parents, loving and demonstrative. He nurtured our bodies and taught us to respect them. She nurtured our souls, encouraging us to love art, music, and learning. Growing up, we took as many trips to the museums and concerts as we did trips to the gym and wrestling matches. Neither of my parents had experienced good childhoods, so they made sure we did. Between them and the extended family they created with BAM, growing up here had been nothing short of magical.
I hoped one day to give that to my own kids.
“Aren’t I always?” I replied, bending to kiss her cheek. Her green eyes were tender as she cupped my face, her dark hair shot with silver and highlighted with purple—something she still did “for fun”—hanging to her shoulders. She was beautiful, and I loved my mother.
But I had a feeling there was a hidden agenda behind the plate of fried chicken she had brought with her.
“Aunt Dee been cooking?”
She laughed. The one thing my mother didn’t do overly well was cook. Her meals were simple, but my aunt Dee, her sister, was great in the kitchen, and they often cooked together.
“Yes. She, Emmy, and I made a whole pile of fried chicken today. Brunch tomorrow, you know.”