Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
“I hope you’re right,” I say glumly.
“Is there any chance you could wake up more pissed?” She blinks at me.
“Eliza, no,” I say, laughing.
“Okay, cool. There you have it, then. Tomorrow has to be better because it can’t get worse.”
“It’s already a lot better with these scones in my belly,” I tell her, finishing my last bite.
“How do you think King Idiot found your new address, if you don’t mind me asking? Or is your mail still being forwarded?”
“Definitely not forwarded. He probably asked somebody back home. I’ve told you how gossip flies around Dallas. When the hot guy mechanic got mixed up with a pig and finally got engaged to my friend Shelly last year, nobody would shut up about it for months.”
“For sure! So why don’t you tell me more about this big interview you have lined up?”
I do exactly that while finishing the coffee and wind up hanging out with Eliza until one in the morning.
Not a terrible way to close out my anti-anniversary.
By the end of the night, I’m grateful that I feel a lot better than I did a year ago.
Eliza works miracles, and not just with her coffee.
I only hope I’ll be half as blessed when I finally get a chance to nail the job that will finally set me free.
2
Forgotten Lore (Lincoln)
I leave work, still preoccupied with the platinum-blond hellcat from Sweeter Grind.
She had an angel’s face, an hourglass figure counting down my patience, and the mouth of a demon.
Isn’t that how it always is?
Normally, it’d fucking turn me on since I’m sick in the head, but not when it comes to my rolls.
Nobody fucks with Lincoln Burns’ Regis rolls.
Yes, I was desperate. Somewhat manic. Unapologetically unhinged.
But not crazy.
I wouldn’t have offered her five hundred damned dollars for a cinnamon roll if it wasn’t life and death.
Right now, those stupid rolls are the only thing keeping Wyatt alive in the grip of his depression. He has just enough strength to fight me off if I try ramming anything healthier down his throat. Not enough strength to run on more than glazed sugar.
When that snapping turtle of a woman couldn’t part with her God-given roll, I went back inside a few hours later after putting in some time at the office and bought a bear claw. Long after she was out of my sight.
I said a Hail Mary, hoping my best friend might be in a mood to try his sugar fix in a different composition today.
Then I brought it to Wyatt’s tent in the park a few blocks down, marching past rows of human misery in the same situation.
He wouldn’t even leave his sleeping bag.
A Regis roll is the only way to get him out of hibernation, and bike chick just had to deny him that to make some pitiful moral point.
When I tried to pull him out, he fought me like an ambushed possum. I wound up with a face full of sticky bear claw for my trouble.
I appreciate his opinion, even if it’s irrational as hell.
My ma loves the stupid rolls, too. A few times, I’ve wondered if my sweet, unassuming mother would unalive some poor SOB for the pleasure.
Every time I go by Sweeter Grind to make a sugar drop for Wyatt, I pick up one or two for Mom.
Not today.
All because I was robbed by the one girl in the city who wouldn’t have a grown-up conversation about a simple exchange.
Fuck it. Maybe she’ll forget about it.
Mother is a little less stubborn than Wyatt when it comes to those rolls, but not by much. I have a while to replay the encounter as I take the ferry over to her place on Bainbridge, standing where the wind can slap me in the face and clear my head like it usually does.
A little while later, Ma meets me at the door with a hug and her usual sunny smile.
“Look who’s back! Come on in. Did you bring me one of those heavenly cinnamon rolls today?”
So much for forgetting.
I heave out a sigh.
“I tried. There was some sort of cinnamon shortage—or just the world’s worst excuse for incompetence—and then some donkey in front of me bought the last roll in the entire place. She wouldn’t let me have it no matter how much money I offered—”
Mom bends over laughing, shaking her curly silvering hair.
“Sweetheart, relax! My doctor would thank you for making me wait for my fix. You don’t owe me a cinnamon roll. Your company is plenty.”
Right.
She pulls the door open and stands aside for me to enter, then shuts the door once I’m inside.
“I couldn’t even get a Regis roll for Wyatt, Ma. I tried feeding him a bear claw and he wouldn’t even get out of bed.”
She frowns, noticing the slight bruise on my temple.
“Oh, my. Is that—”
“Not his fault. I tried to drag him out of his den when I should know better. He’s not well,” I remind her.