Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Just being closed a few days means we have so much fresh produce at our houses,” she said.
“You should start baking tomorrow, Mom,” I told her. “Get ahead of things.”
“I will,” she assured me. “Once I get you nice and settled. I still don’t like that we need to reopen so soon, but I understand why we do.”
See, the thing was, my grandparents had left their ‘estate’ to me with their passing. It wasn’t like they’d been rich or anything, but they’d been comfortable. And their house had been purchased for cheap and fully paid off, so we’d made a hefty profit when I’d sold it after they were gone.
My mother had insisted I buy myself a small house with it. Strange, in my opinion, from a woman who’d spent her whole life refusing to put down roots. I guess, maybe, it was her way of insisting I get myself some stability, so no matter what happened, I could sell the house, and support myself.
If the restaurant went belly-up.
Since that was what we’d decided to do with the rest of the money.
I planned to do everything in my power not to let that happen. I couldn’t have anticipated how much The Brunch Bar would mean to both of us until we’d rented the place, until we’d put all of our love into decorating it and creating a menu for it.
“We will make it work,” I assured her.
“We always do, baby,” she said, grabbing my hand, and giving it a squeeze. “Now, what should be our special on reopening day?” she asked.
We lost ourselves for a while talking about that as we munched on the snacks. Then she ran out to grab us lunch, and then started to pack me up, so we could get going as soon as I got my discharge papers in the morning.
I slept restlessly, overcome with spicy dreams of a certain man with gorgeous eyes and a spectacular face and a magic tongue.
“You look worse than you did right after being shot,” my mom fussed at me as she helped me into my house.
She’d wanted to take me home with her, but I’d put my foot down. She needed to bake. Fussing over me was only going to distract her. Besides, there was nothing wrong with my legs. I could get my own food and take myself from place to place with no issue.
Besides, once I got into my own bed, cuddling the blanket Nino had brought me, wearing the sleep mask he’d gotten me, I passed out for ten hours straight.
I wouldn’t claim that I felt great when I woke up the next morning, knowing my mom would be over to pick me up. But it didn’t matter how I felt. I had to go back to work.
By the time we were pulling into the lot, it wasn’t really the physical tasks that were weighing on me. It was the way my stomach twisted and nausea rose up in my throat as we made our way to the back door.
“Don’t worry, baby,” my mother said, giving my hip a squeeze. “I was here already. I cleaned up.”
“You’re amazing,” I told her, thinking about how little she’d been able to sleep, or relax. She’d been fussing over me, then taking care of both of our gardens, baking, and cleaning the restaurant.
Sure, my mother had what seemed like boundless energy, but there was a niggling feeling of guilt in me about. And that guilt suddenly made me appreciate Nino’s guilt about my getting shot.
It wasn’t his fault.
And it wasn’t my fault that my mom had to do extra work.
But there was no reasoning with unreasonable emotions.
You just had to ride the wave of them, let them move through and out of you when it was time to let them go.
So I didn’t fight the feelings as I slowly made fresh coffee, and did a few preparation tasks to make the day easier when we opened our doors.
Then, it was time.
I unlocked the door.
I flipped the sign.
Hoping for a half a dozen dine-in customers and twice that many drop ins.
I’d been wholly unprepared for the absolutely endless stream of customers that day.
All women, oddly enough.
And all of them wanting to buy us out of stock of everything we had.
I was sitting there during a lull, happy tears flooding my eyes, when the door chirped once again, making me turn to see who was coming in the door.
I wasn’t prepared for it to be Nino.
Or for him to be seemingly… pissed off.
“What the fuck, Savannah?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nino
Make this shit make some sense.
I wanted to drive by her house to check on her.
I mean, what the ever-loving-fuck was that about?
She wasn’t my woman.
She wasn’t my family.
It wasn’t my place to check in on her.
I tried to rationalize it with both my guilt, and the fact that she didn’t have a giant support system around her.