Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 18476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 74(@250wpm)___ 62(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 74(@250wpm)___ 62(@300wpm)
“Impossible.” Each blue lettering lights up brighter than its predecessor. “Now, you…” he points prior to rotating his finger to curl inward, “come here to me, Arley Wahl.”
I’ve never been able to resist my husband.
And after more than a decade together, I honestly don’t see that ever changing.
Even with an occasional disappointment or two.
There’s no delay in tossing my black French coat covered arms around his expansive torso – that I swear somehow has increased in definition – nor is there any hesitation in burying my face into his chest. Smells of stale mall cookies and Kolby’s overpowering cologne are undeniable, but his scent…the one that belongs just to him…the one that reminds me of the woods and metal and gun powder…ruthlessly crushes all the others to be the one that welcomes my senses.
Reminds me of where I am.
Who I’m with.
The man I always wanna be with.
Slater braces one hand on the small of my back and the other on the nape of my neck. The initial squeeze he executes is always the same. Ten plus years of greeting me like this and that gesture is identical to the first one he ever made. It’s protectively tight. One that tells me I am the most important thing in his whole world and swears that getting me back here in his arms was the only true mission ever on his mind. Nuzzling my nose against his chest – an action I unintentionally trained our girls to do when he arrives home from long stretches – prompts a secondary squeeze that’s accompanied by a sigh of relief so heavy it makes the service bells ring.
Low grumbles of gratitude vibrate both our figures prompting me to press myself tighter into him.
Dig my fingers deeper in the fabric cloaking his frame.
Fight the knot of tears in my throat that darts upward when he pulls back to whisper, “You can always count on me, Angel Cake. Come hell or highwater.” His thumb gives the skin in its possession a soft stroke. “Or in this case…kidnappers and Christmas carols.”
Curiosity collides into disbelief dropping my jaw. “What?!”
“Service is beginning,” sweetly announces the elderly woman near the set of double doors. “Get inside, turtle doves.”
My husband acknowledges her with a polite nod and gently takes my hand, guiding us into the room to sit beside his ma.
For about an hour, the speaker delivers a heartwarming message regarding the act of serving. He touches on the season of the subject, yet eventually, dives further into the benefit for self that can come from doing something for others. His message is lively and colorful. Neon bursts flash in spurts all around the room where they’re met by sparkling hums of agreement and approval and understanding. Feeling and hearing as much as seeing the lesson regarding the wonderfulness that can ensue from acts of service has me continuously adjusting in my seat. Scooting closer to Slater when the words fit situations we’ve crossed. Leaning into him at certain phrases. Looking up at him in awe during others.
By the time, everything has wrapped up – including post service lemonade and lemon cookies – any lingering animosity over an absent husband for the day has dissipated. We stroll back to our vehicles which are parked on the same row and part ways with words of seeing one another back at their property soon.
Slater opens my door, helps me into his already warming truck, and hustles around to climb inside himself, not wanting to be in the cold longer than he has to. The fact he’s not wearing a coat reminds me of where that particular piece of outerwear currently is, which is where he should’ve been, leading me to squeak, “What the hell do you mean kidnappers and Christmas carols?!”
He cringes at the same time he releases his hold on his seatbelt.
“What in the Macaulay Culkin happened at the mall!?”
“Long story.”
“Then shorten it.”
His crystal gaze cuts elsewhere.
“I deserve – at the very fucking least – the office memo version of events, Cowboy.”
He swings his stare back to mine.
“We’ve got half an hour drive, so spill.”
“But-”
“Oh, I am so not asking.” Buckling myself in wedged between declarations. “I am absolutely one hundred and ten percent telling you that you’re gonna tell me.”
His lips press begrudgingly together in surrender.
“Oh, and before we officially begin, I would just like to announce that there will be an actual text memo regarding a new family policy about hanging up on someone’s wife especially when she hasn’t heard from her husband all goddamn day.”
“Kolby hung up on you!?”
“For cookies!”
Slater slowly shakes his head on an annoyed mumbled, “Yeah, that fucking tracks for him.”
“Well, he won’t be getting any more of my cookies anytime soon.”
“I know what kinds of cookies you’re talkin’ about vs not talkin’ about and still feel the urge to run him over with a reindeer.”