Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Culpability clenches my sac tight enough to cut off my breathing.
“You can even walk in, sit down, get up, and walk out. That still technically counts as me bringing you to dinner.”
It doesn’t.
Aunt Brandi isn’t the most charitable individual outside of her need to give to me, and I’d rather not have to dip into my savings account to give my girl the money she apparently could use.
Uh…my…PA.
Not my girl.
Or girlfriend.
Or even fuck friend because we’re not fucking.
Yeah, we’ve fooled around but that’s where the shit will probably end since I’ll most likely jump ship this coming weekend.
Her brown eyes wordlessly implore me to agree to the pending torture and the sinking brick in the pit of my stomach feels as though Fate is commanding, I give her this. Pre-pay penance for the ripping apart of her world I’m going to be doing in a matter of days.
Grumbles of annoyance precede a deep, displeased grump. “Fine.”
“Yay!”
“But-”
“Less yay.”
“You have to join me.”
“All of the no yay.” She frantically shakes her head, thick, dark brown hair violently slapping the slides of her face. “No yay. No yay. No yay!”
“You mean nay?”
“I mean I’m not staying for dinner.”
“Then I’m not going to dinner.” The challenge carves its way through my entire complexion. “We go or no one goes.” Finally, feeling as though I have the upper hand, I cockily beam. “So, what’s it gonna be, June Bug? We goin’ or you wanna let me make us sushi tonight?”
Various emotions noticeably cycle across her face, yet defeat is the one that ends up sticking. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
Seeing another opportunity to add some fun to her life, I mischievously declare, “Guess we should probably go fix that…”
Chapter 8
Tucker
Do I regret ditching Koose Koose and a half thought-out painting of the beach I miss in Hawaii to watch June try on dress after dress after dress?
Not at all.
Seeing her struggle to figure out oddly placed straps and gag whenever I suggested floral anything would’ve been worth it alone but once you add in getting to “help her zip” or “button” or more accurately unzip and unbutton, it becomes the single best decision I made all day while agreeing to spend time with my family being the absolute worst.
At least June Bug got a new dress.
And it has actual color to it, which her wardrobe desperately needs.
“You sure I look okay?” She nervously asks at the same time she pulls in past the gate of the estate. “I mean can I even pull off this shade of red? Is it too deep? Do I look like a bottle of spilled wine? Or what about the polka dots? Am I even fit for polka dots?! I thought they were playful, but now I look like I’m covered in dandruff, don’t I? Oh! Oh! What about this hat?” Panic pierces her voice in tandem with it piercing my stomach – albeit for a different reason. “It’s too much, isn’t it?! Totally says ‘Hi I’m only into art because my boyfriend is’.”
“No, you’re into art because you love it just like he does.” Her eyes widen to the size of the turtle shaped hedge we’re passing prompting me to correct, “Is um…what the hat says.” Clearing my throat is accompanied by adjusting in my seat. “Implies.”
Again, I’m not her boyfriend.
What in the Henry Moore is going on with me today?
“And you look fucking beautiful, June Bug. Stop stressing.”
Seriously.
I have enough to stress about for the both of us.
She flashes me a small smile of gratitude prior to asking, “What’s with all the weird tree shaped animals?”
“They’re not all animals,” I offhandedly correct. “Some are just…non-geometric shapes.”
“Weirder.”
Not chuckling the explanation isn’t an option. “It was Dad’s best attempt at creating art.”
“Really?” Our drive to the front lot slows down to a creep. “Did he used to cut them all by himself?”
“Not all of them but some. He liked for us to come out here whenever they were being maintained and convince the gardeners to show us how to cut the new growth as well as how to trim ones to resemble an actual object. Used to drive my mother batshit crazy to have strange, lopsided shapes all around the yard, but she never had them fixed because she knew what he was really doing was trying to connect to me in the way that mattered most to me.”
“Art.”
“Yeah.” Another small grin is given. “I kind of think that’s why I don’t struggle with sculpting as much as others I’ve met. Got a weird cousin of a tutorial growing up by learning topiary.” The particular word choice is followed by an impish glance. “See. Weird doesn’t have to always be a bad thing.”
“Is that flamingo wearing a light up dog collar?!”
“But it is always a descriptive thing.”
The two of us share a laugh during our final cruise to a stop, an action that ultimately results in my stomach resuming its previous decision to twist itself to death.