Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
I silently add the ingredients to the blender, plus a heaping scoop of chocolate flavored protein powder, a reasonable scoop of powdered peanut butter, and a small spoonful of greens superfood powder from the cabinet above. Riley watches my every move closely, which makes me hyper-aware of her nearness. And my relative nakedness.
The whir of the blender as it chops up the banana seems louder than usual in the awkward silence. I pour the mixture into a tall cup and hold it up for her appraisal.
“You drink that every morning?” Her nose crinkles in distaste, the side with the tiny hoop lifting up slightly more.
“It’s not bad. Pretty good, actually, and good for you,” I reply defensively.
“If you say so,” she teases, holding up her fingers in an X like she’s cursing my healthy breakfast. She hisses at it too, like she’s an actual cat.
I pour the small remaining bit of shake in the blender into another cup and hold it out to her. “Try it.” She instantly and vehemently shakes her head. I take a big swallow of my own and then dramatically moan like it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever had, all the while shaking the other cup at her like that might entice her to give in.
When I arch a brow in obvious challenge, she narrows her eyes. “Fine, but if I die of food poisoning, Cole’s gonna be pissed at you.” Despite her bluster, she takes the cup, careful to not touch me, and then peers into it like the thick liquid might jump out at her. She sniffs it and her brows knit.
“It smells like chocolate.” Before the small win can stroke my considerable ego, she adds, “And grass. I hate the smell of grass.” She sticks her tongue out like she’s gagging, even though she hasn’t taken a drink yet.
Who hates the smell of a freshly-mowed yard? It’s the quintessential scent of spring. But Riley is pinching her nose like she’s taking gross-tasting medicine, not drinking a healthy shake. She does it, though, gulping it down like a shot of cheap whiskey.
After she’s released her nose, her tongue peeks out, licking her lips delicately, and my eyes zero in on the pink tip, watching her trace the line of shake still on her lips. But when it disappears, she frowns. “Actually, that’s not as bad as I expected.”
I tilt my head, giving her a look of ‘told you so’, before taking another swallow of my own shake. “Ahh.” I smack my lips, pleased with myself for getting her to try it and admit that she liked it. “You’re welcome to make it a double, one for you and one for me, if you want.”
She glances down at the remnants in her cup. “We’ll see.”
I’ve been a parent long enough to know what that means—no.
“You don’t have to make it, then. I can do it.”
Before the words are out of my mouth, she’s already shaking her head in disagreement. “I got it. Pancakes. Protein shake. Every morning.” She taps her temple like she’s making a mental note, though I seriously doubt she has a whiteboard in there she’s scribbling on. If it were me, I’d put alarmed alerts on my phone to serve as a daily reminder. Riley definitely doesn’t do that, but she declares, “Consider it done.”
Grabbing the blender pitcher, she moves to the sink, giving me her back, but I catch her eyes watching me in the window’s reflection.
“Okay. Thanks,” I stammer, measuring the set of her shoulders to see if she’s feeling some sort of way about adding that task to her to-do list. In my experience, women pivot on you when they’re angry, frustrated, or upset and want to hide that from you. But Riley’s just scrubbing the pitcher normally, not too hard and not wasting any water with snappish splashing.
People do things for me. It’s one of the benefits of being who I am. At the office, people are paid—hell, they fight over the opportunity—to do grunt work for me. At home, I pay for someone to scrub toilets and vacuum, wash my car, and yeah, take care of my child.
All that to say I can’t remember the last person who volunteered to make me breakfast. It had to be the nanny I likened to Mrs. Doubtfire, a bit dramatic, a lot old-fashioned, and who was, ultimately, unable to keep up with Grace’s schedule. I think the time at the barn is what really did her in. But the others? They’d take care of Grace and leave me to fend for myself, as they should’ve because they were hired as nannies, not house managers.
Riley seems pretty dead set on doing it, though, and I’m not going to stop her, especially with what I’m paying for her services. If she wants to take on house manager-level work, I’ll sure as shit let her and consider it a positive return on my investment.