Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I need to be here.
I need to be present.
I need to be showing the fuck up.
For both him and our son.
Post makeup, jewelry, and shoes, I swing by the kitchen to cancel my breakfast delivery, an action that opens me up for helping Wy get ready for school.
Once we’re finished, I walk him down to the SUV where two guards are actively waiting to assist in transporting. They warmly greet us both and offer to strap him into his seat the second he’s inside the vehicle, only to be given a very defiant shake of the hand by a kid who is more like me than I probably should be proud of.
“I dot tis,” he firmly exclaims to them as I tuck his backpack and go bag on the floor space in front of him. “I do it.”
Holmes nods his understanding while poorly hiding his amusement. “Of course, Little Fins.”
The two of us casually watch him fight with the straps.
And then the arm holes.
And then the buckles.
All of the buckles.
Each action is accompanied by a slew of incomprehensible mumbles; although, I swear some of them sound like wannabe cuss words.
Eventually, a deep, heavy, defeated sigh floods the area, wordlessly demanding my attention inside the SUV again. “Mom?”
Arrogantly leaning against the side of the vehicle is attached to a hum. “Hm?”
“Help, pwease?”
I cock a curious eyebrow. “You sure?”
“I tour.”
“What do you need my help with?”
“Buttle.” He taps the pieces near his chest. “Buttle me like tapian tirk, pwease.”
“You the captain of this ship?”
“No,” Wy’s pointing extends in Holmes direction, “Fanken is.”
There’s no stopping my head from snapping to him. “Your first name’s Frank?”
“No. My first name’s Nathaniel.”
“Then…why’d he call you Frank?”
“Because, you,” his expression is impish, “call me Franken No Fun. Not Holmes.”
“Huh,” I grunt in obvious mirth. “I’m very clever.”
“You have…an interesting…way with words.”
“Ughhhhh,” groans Wyland unexpectedly while wiggling around in his car seat, “made by star feet?!”
“Which is where he gets it from,” Holmes chortles to himself prompting me to casually flash him my middle finger.
Thankfully, getting him strapped in isn’t nearly that difficult for me.
And neither is retrieving his juice along with his favorite “road book” that’s basically his version of a word search only with animals instead of letters.
“Getting into the festival markets is not up for debate,” Wes gripes into his earpiece enroute to us. “It’s how we test new flavors and new products in unbiased atmospheres, build early anticipation, and assist in steering the seasonal choices. Our brands are to set the trends. We do not follow them. I expect marketing to receive an email regarding our acquired locations by the end of the day or your resignation by lunch.” The abrupt ending of his call occurs in tandem with his arrival. “And what can I do for you, Ms. Winters?”
“Excuse you.” Lifting my left hand is done in a snarky fashion. “That’s Mrs. Wilcox.”
“My apologies.” Wes briefly admires the insanely large piece of jewelry prior to hungrily growling, “What can I do for you,” he indulges in an almost feral swiping of his lips, “Mrs. Wilcox?”
“You can tell me if you have a preference on where you sit in the vehicle.”
One hand casually sliding into his pocket is attached to a single word. “Why?”
“I was trying to be polite by not sitting in your respective seat.”
Confusion pulls his brow tightly together. “Why would you be sitting in any seat?”
“Because sitting in your lap with an audience is frowned upon.”
Holmes and Hill chuckle in tandem.
He doesn’t bother breaking eye contact with me to glare at them. “You believe you’re going somewhere.”
“I know I’m going somewhere.”
“Brynley,” his shoulders sympathetically fall, “I admire your commitment however-”
“This isn’t a negotiation, Weston.” My hands plant themselves firmly on my hips. “I’m your wife, not your employee. Whether or not you’re done trying to dictate my movements is on you but allowing you to no longer be successful? That’s on me.”
“Bryn-”
“I’m getting in this vehicle and taking my son to school and because you decided to try and dictate otherwise, you’ve lost my fuck to give about your seat preferences.”
“You sit behind the driver,” Holmes informs from his nearby position. “Wilcox positions himself in the very back – as to have more privacy while working – and you sit in the seat closest to Wyland.”
“Thank you, Franken No Fun.” I shoot him a playful grin prior to glaring at the man I married. “Now, was that so hard?”
His mouth twitches in argument but is interrupted once more.
“Cab!” shouts Wy in frustration. “I meed da cab!”
“Why’s our son trying to hail a cab?”
Leaning back slightly into the vehicle, I sound out, “Cr-cr-crab.”
Wy nods his understanding prior to repeating it under his breath. “Cw-cw-cwab.”
“He’s reading his find the animals book and enjoying a nice cold cup of Totally Turtle juice.” An innocent shrug is wedged between statement. “Can’t lie. It’s not bad for something that has kale in it.”