Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
That’s weirdly violent for her.
I blink dumbly.
“She means it, too,” Dexter says flatly.
“Of course I do. She’s a nice girl, Pat. Behave yourself.” Junie wags her finger again.
“Goddamn. What’s a guy gotta do around here to convince you I’m serious about her?”
“We know you’re serious. She’s here, isn’t she?” Dexter slides an arm around his wife’s waist, pulling her close. She smiles like he hung the damn stars. “You’ve never brought a girl home before. Not since high school.”
“I didn’t bring Vanessa over for a date,” I say. “Not to meet Mom, anyway.”
“No, you brought her over to fuck in your room—only Mom came home too soon.” Archer doesn’t laugh much, but tonight he makes an exception.
Junie clucks her tongue with disapproval, but her lips quirk up.
“Are you boys going back to being crude before I even leave?”
“Sweetheart, we have to start early,” Dexter says with his married man shit-eating grin. She slaps his shoulder and makes her way back inside, leaving the cupcakes with us on a small metal end table.
Sometimes I don’t know how he ever poached a girl who can meet him head-on and cook. I used to think it wasn’t fair.
Now, with Salem in the mix, I’m not begrudging my own luck.
Archer leans over and flicks me between the eyes.
I swing at him and barely miss.
“What the hell was that for?”
“Stop thinking about her. You get the wolfiest look on your face,” Archer says, rolling his eyes. He’s the only one of us left still fanatically single.
For the first time, Dexter doesn’t join in beyond chortling.
Probably because he’s also guilty of having stupid looks on his face whenever he thinks about Junie.
I take an angry bite of my cupcake—strawberry and chocolate today—grateful for the burst of flavor to drown out their bullshit.
It’s almost obscenely sweet, and that’s how I like it.
“I should check on Mom,” I growl, taking Junie’s exit as an escape opportunity.
My brothers shrug and go back to talking about new real estate prospects around town as I head inside.
All shit flinging aside, I think I got lucky.
When I showed up with Salem and Arlo in tow, Mom could’ve made this hard.
In fact, I expected her to say something—or at least have me introduce Salem as my girlfriend—but Mom just pulled her into a big, silent hug and that was that.
Maybe it was the dress.
It’s nice enough for the occasion, but it still accents my woman so well I can’t wait to rip it right off her. Especially after that ridiculous call with her so-called friend, but we were pressed for time and Arlo was already bouncing off the walls.
I hear voices and head through to the sunroom at the end of the house.
Outside, it’s still so cool this place feels drafty, but Mom doesn’t believe in practicality. She worships atmosphere.
For a second, I linger in the doorway, just watching them.
My family.
Even the thought makes my throat tighten.
There’s little Arlo, playing with an old set of army men and military vehicles I used to own when I was a kid. He rams a plastic tank through a group of blue soldiers and dammit, I can’t help but smile.
Have you ever felt like you’re seeing a memory made flesh?
That’s me right now, awestruck at how much Rory blood is really in the kid’s veins. He’s just missing an older asshole brother or two to come screaming in at the last second with their plastic jets firing spring-loaded missiles.
Junie and Salem are on the sofa together. Like any good woman willing to shack up with Dexter, she took Salem under her wing immediately.
Evelyn Hibbing sits with Mom on the other sofa, sipping a negroni and chatting away. She’ll likely hang around for a few more weeks while Minnesota thaws enough for her liking.
If that isn’t picturesque enough, Mom strung up fairy lights. The place glows with this cozy lantern orange that shines off Salem’s hair.
Honest to God, I could stare at her forever.
“Patton?” Mom says, and I blink, dragging my gaze off Salem’s slow smile to Mom’s knowing grin. “Don’t just stand there gawking. Come join us.”
“Mr. Patman! Come play.” Arlo leaps up and takes my hand, dragging me over to his miniature battlefield. “You can be the tanks,” he tells me, grabbing a big artillery piece a couple feet away.
“So you think the name fits, huh?”
Arlo laughs, too oblivious for the history lesson I’m hinting at. When he’s older, I think he’ll learn to appreciate George S. Patton like my old man taught me.
Another family quirk. My namesake comes from a great uncle who served as one of the general’s right-hand officers in Europe, but that’s a story for another day.
Putting on my game face, I try to live up to the name, steering the tanks into a tactical position, only for Arlo to stop me and move them back into the open.