Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“Let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got places to be.” Dean slaps the button to open Murphy’s loading door. It crawls up its chains, groaning in protest.
“Yeah? Where do you got to be that’s more important than being with me?” I tease.
“A date.”
I inhale as he passes me. “No wonder you smell so good.”
“Do I?” He hops onto the concrete pad.
I watch him drop the ramp down to his truck and check the straps around the dishwasher, testing their strength. “Haven’t you dated all the women in this town?”
“Most. Not all … yet.” He looks pointedly at me before maneuvering the appliance down with a dolly. “Heard you’re going to Boston this weekend.”
I sigh with exasperation. “Yeah. My brother’s been bugging me to meet his new girlfriend for weeks. I’m going just to shut him up.”
Dean hops onto his truck bed. “Not worried about a run-in with the ex?”
“Nope. I told them I wasn’t coming if he was going to be in town, and Joe promised it’s just us.” Mention of Bill causes a sharp prick in my chest, but I promptly cut off the pain and box it up. It’s done. We’re over. I’m moving on. “Scarlet’s coming for moral support, on the off chance I get drunk and emotional.”
“You? Never.” Dean uses his powerful thighs to shimmy the appliance into position.
“Careful with thrusting those hips of yours into Stuart the Second. Save that for your date.”
“Why did you name your dishwasher?”
“Because he’s a hardworking employee and deserves to be recognized. So is Kevin the refrigerator and Carl the oven. Jerry’s about to retire.”
“And Jerry is—”
“Microwave.”
Dean mumbles under his breath. “About your trip to Boston, you know, I’m around for moral support too.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” I quip.
“I mean it, Justine. As a friend.” He pauses, draped over the box to peer at me, his eyes earnest.
It swells an unexpected knot in my throat. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” But Dean and I don’t have that kind of friendship. We have the lighthearted, superficial one that doesn’t talk about feelings, and I need to keep it that way. “Do you wait until after dessert to make your big move? Or are you more of a between-dinner-and-dessert kind of guy? Or do you just call it ‘dinner,’ but you’re going over to her house to fuck?”
“Shut up.” His chuckle carries into the quiet night.
Chapter Ten
“Your daughter has picked a fight with the town’s biggest developer.” Scarlet grins into her red wine.
“Oh?” Mom sticks a thermometer in the beef tenderloin she pulled from the oven. In a dish next to it, the roasted potatoes sizzle. Somewhere else in the kitchen, a homemade Caesar salad with extra Parmesan and bacon waits to be tossed. It’s her favorite meal to make, and she only makes it for the most special of occasions. “What do you mean by ‘picked a fight’?”
“I’m standing up for those who feel they don’t have a voice, while trying to save a historic landmark.”
“Justine found out about the developer’s plan to tear down a building on Main Street and replace it with condos. No one else in the community had heard about it yet, so she put them on blast. Now people are calling town council and there have been several front-page articles published in the newspaper, trying to stop it from happening. The heritage commissioner is involved.”
“Oh dear. Does that seem wise?” Mom turns to me. “These people have a lot of money tied up in those kinds of things. I doubt they’d take too kindly to someone causing them problems.”
I wave her worries away. “I’m not afraid of this Harvard grad.”
“You should see him, Kitty.” Scarlet gives my mom an arched brow while handing her the oven mitts, knowing Mom forgot where she set them down and was about to frantically search for them. Twelve years of family dinners at the MacDermott household has made my best friend as comfortable in this kitchen as anyone who grew up under this roof.
“Oh.” Mom titters as she slides the meat back in a little longer. “I’m not sure aggression is how you’re going to win him over, dear.”
I roll my eyes. “Trust me, I’m not trying to win him over.” Not anymore. “He’s a dick.”
Mom opens her mouth, no doubt about to reprimand me for my language when suddenly, she freezes, listening intently as a door creaks open elsewhere in the house.
Joe’s boom of “Is that beef I smell?” carries.
“They’re here!” Mom hastily sheds her apron, uncovering a new red silk blouse, and fluffs up her hair with her fingers. It’s even feathered today, like TV Kitty’s, and she probably has no clue. Joe is going to lose his shit when he sees her.
“Come, Justine! And don’t be so crass. No need to scare Sara away.” Mom squeezes my wrist before rushing to the front of the house.