Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
She winds her container free hand around his neck, leans in a little closer, and sings another line to “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch)”, barely pausing when he does his best to sneak in kisses.
Kisses that he gives freely to her yet hasn’t to me.
Not since our spat in the hospital waiting room.
He won’t even let his fucking hand rest near mine when we’re holding her.
It isn’t until Rabbit returns to grabbing items for dinner that I warmly greet, “Hey, Kid.”
The smile he’s wearing instantly falls.
Fades into tar-filled abyss.
Is replaced by an undeniable grimace that’s followed by a barely grunted. “Hey.”
Things I hate?
This. Shit.
This watching him love and adore her but practically fucking ignoring me.
Treating me like an old, cracked window tint that’s irrelevant.
Listening to him cheerfully talk shop to every Tom, Dick, and Fuckboy that walks into the garage for work but won’t so much as ask me to hand him a goddamn wrench.
I get it.
He’s pissed.
He’s been pissed.
He’s probably gonna keep being pissed until he stops doing laps at the Angry 500 and actually fucking talks to me about what’s on his mind.
Not that I’m looking forward to that talk.
But it beats the fuck out this silent treatment bullshit I’m way too fucking old for.
Kid’s focus along with his smile return to Rabbit. “Want help?”
A familiar flirty smirk is given. “You mean you want me to want help.”
“I always want you.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Full. Flag. Stop.”
She gives a playful tug to his work shirt prior to pointing. “Wash your hands.” Unexpectedly, she throws me the same order. “You too.”
“Why?”
“You can both help.”
I prepare to shoot back a snarky retort when I spot the silent pleading.
Ah.
This isn’t actually about needing assistance.
It’s about getting us all in the same lane again.
Maybe even the same car.
“Got it,” precedes me moving to the sink to be beside Kipp who immediately displays displeasure once more.
After taking two pumps of the fruity hand soap Rabbit loves, I expect him to offer it to me or at the very least push it over my way.
He doesn’t.
In fact, I swear he nudges it in the opposite direction as if to wordlessly request I fuck off.
Which is new for him.
And shit I don’t care for.
A lot like dubstep.
I stretch across the small space to steal a dab of soap at the same time he turns on the water. “How was work?”
An uncomfortably long lull passes before he bluntly answers, “Busy.”
“What was wrong with that Odyssey?”
“Tires.”
“What about that Enclave?”
“Oil change.”
“And that S-Class?”
“Valve cover gasket replacement.” There isn’t time to ask for details due to him grabbing the dish towel and moving elsewhere. “Where do you need me, baby?”
“Let’s work together at the kitchen table,” she casually informs. “There’s more room to maneuver here than at the counter.”
Both impressed and irritated by his dedication to isolate me from his life, I grumble my unhappiness under my breath and quickly scrub up to join them.
Out of all the years I’ve been in his life, he’s never once put up this level of roadblocks between us.
I keep trying to go around them, but it’s not working.
All alternate directions are unavailable.
And no detours are being suggested.
Accepted.
It’s like I have no choice except to sit here and wait for whatever shit construction is backing up traffic to finish its no end in sight project.
Drying my hand with a different dishtowel is done enroute to the table where Rabbit seems to be making mixtures of some sort. “And what are we cookin’ good lookin’?”
“Parmesan crusted porkchops.” Her beautiful brown gaze lifts to meet mine. “Posie sent me this super easy recipe that I’ve been dying to try.”
“Want me to make mashed potatoes, Kid?” My suggestion is attached to a crooked grin. “You know my insta shit is pretty hard to beat.”
I’m not even granted eye contact as he opens the packaging. “We can have whatever Bunny wants.”
“What Bunny wants is the two men in her life to be back on the same side of the fucking spreadsheet.” At that, she receives both of our stares. “Talk to each other.”
“I’ve been talking,” I thoughtlessly grunt in tandem with grabbing the box of breadcrumbs to open. “I’m the one not being talked to.”
“I’ve talked to you,” Kid emotionlessly counters. “You ask. I answer. That’s talking.”
“That’s childish.”
“And name calling isn’t?”
The unexpected, returned jab has me slamming the box down and biting, “I wasn’t calling you a child. I was saying that behavior – your behavior – is childish.”
“I see.” He crumples the plastic wrap into a ball. “When you do something, it’s acceptable. When I do the exact same thing, it isn’t.” His no look, one handed throw impressively makes it into the garbage. “Got it.”
“Kid-”
“What else can I help with?” Kipp finds our woman’s gaze again. “You want me to season anything? Everything?” Mischievousness muscles it way into his expression. “I’m very good at making things shake in my hand.”