Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Bring your hot as fudge assistant.”
Vaughn’s attention snaps up to me. “Hot as fudge?” He scowls. Somebody’s grumpy. He usually handles my teasing without so much as a bat of a long, thick lash. “I travel solo when I’m working.”
“Think, Vaughn. She can help you dress.” I toss this one up with a wink.
Judging by the look on his face, you’d think I offered him a steaming slice of dog shit pie. “Andi’s like a sister to me.”
Wow. He sure seems bent out of shape over my suggestion about his assistant. This man is full of surprises.
“You have a sister?”
“No––but if I did I would feel the same way about her as I do Andi.”
“Okay. I get it. You’re not in lust with your assistant. I just assumed…”
“You assumed wrong,” he barks, as if I’ve egregiously offended him.
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. For the first time since I’ve met this man, he’s not perfect. No siree. He’s angry and impatient, and generally in a bad mood. And it makes me smile. I’m smiling like the village idiot because although it took twenty some odd stitches in his left hand to do it, the shiny veneer is gone.
After the doctor finishes bandaging the turkey’s broken wing and hands him a prescription for painkillers we grab a cab back home, during which he is dead quiet and in deep contemplation for the entire ride.
“I’m going to clean up some of the broken glass,” I announce as soon as we get back to the townhouse.
Vaughn walks past me, into the living room, the only room in the house that’s almost done being renovated, and throws his big body down on the couch.
“Hell no,” he snaps, looking up at me with an incensed glare. “Let that fucker do it tomorrow. Then, I’m gonna fire his ass. He’s lucky I don’t sue him.”
“Whoa there, counselor. You can’t fire him now that I have something to hold over him. He’s going to be working double time by the time I’m through. Besides, it will take forever to find someone else. You know it will. And I have to do something about the glass––it’s the only working bathroom we’ve got if you get my drift.” He grumbles something I can’t make out, his attention directed over my shoulder. “Use your words.”
His attention swings back to me. Although he’s wearing a determined frown, nothing in his eyes suggests he’s heard me teasing him.
“I keep thinking it could’ve been you. You could’ve been seriously injured.” His eyes flicker away.
It’s a constant source of surprise and amusement that my best efforts to poke the bear simply bounce off of him. At the moment, however, I’m feeling neither amused nor surprised. What I am feeling is a strange burn in my chest. “I don’t see how it’s any better that you were injured. So we agree. You’re giving me the green light to blast him.”
His lips twitch, then slowly begin to lift up. “Fine. But don’t touch anything,” he orders, his tone brooking no argument. “I’ll take some of those old pieces of sheetrock and lay it over the glass on the bathroom floor. At least we can use the toilet tonight.”
It’s Sunday, which means I usually have the night off. Unfortunately I’d volunteered to work a private party so I call One Maple and switch with a bartender who owes me. It’s clear that logistically I have to help the patient prepare for the trip the stubborn ass insists on taking tomorrow.
“Party tonight. Where can I get the prescription filled?” When my query is met with silence, I turn away from the fridge to get a look-see and find him steeped in deep thought. Seated at the island in the kitchen, he’s staring at the glass of water before him.
His phone rings again, for the umpteenth time. It’s been ringing nonstop since we left the hospital. I’m actually surprised he’s letting most of the calls go to voicemail.
“I’m not taking that junk.” He sounds strangely forlorn, or sad, or something like it. Which bothers me. An urgent need to make him feel better gets a hold of me. Ten days ago I was ready to make a eunuch out of him and now I want to see him smile. The man is turning me into Sybil.
“You look like you’re in serious pain, Vaughn. I don’t want you to suffer. And since I can feel your pain as acutely as if it were mine, I’ll take a couple of those babies with you––only out of solidarity of course––and then, just for giggles, we can do a marathon of The Leftovers.”
“Negative on the pill party.”
“All kidding aside, let me fill the prescription, in case you need one tonight to help you sleep. Your lobster claw is going to be throbbing later.” With the way the doc bandaged his left hand, it basically resembles a lobster claw, as I’ve affectionately been referring to it. It’s also totally useless.