Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“No, no, he’s not being mean,” Halle assured her. “I’m really not a good cook,” she told her. “We kind of just… order in or go out,” she added.
“Don’t worry, honey,” she said, handing her a spoon. “You’ve got this. I’m right here to keep an eye. Don’t listen to the boys.”
Enjoying the us-versus-them thing, Halle shot a smile in our direction.
“Right? They don’t know how to cook either,” she insisted. “What?” she asked at my ma’s look. “Do they? Do you know how to cook?” Halle asked, shooting small eyes at me.
“Yeah, I know how to cook.”
“Like grill a steak and scramble an egg, or cook?” she asked. Because, yeah, Halle could cook an egg or flip a grilled cheese. Even make mostly edible pasta. It was in the more complicated meals where she floundered.
“Cook,” I admitted.
“I’ve been living with you for about a month,” she said, fired up about this for some reason. “And we have eaten out for almost every meal. And you can cook? Well, you’re cooking dinner tomorrow night then,” she said, lifting her chin in a way that I knew meant she was gonna dig her heels in about it.
That seemed to break the ice, though, and the rest of the meal went off without a hitch. Lots of lighthearted teasing and sharing of stories that weren’t too intense in nature. Just getting to know each other.
By the time we walked out of there, both my Ma and Halle were tipsy on the copious amount of wine served, and Halle was agreeing to have brunch with Ma and Lauren over the weekend.
“For the record, if something happens with us,” Halle said in the backseat of the car, giving me a bleary-eyed smile, “I’m keeping your mom, and you’re just gonna have to be an orphan.”
“Baby, nothing is happening between us,” I assured her, pulling her legs over my lap.
“I dunno. If you keep lying to me…”
“It never came up,” I insisted.
“Oh, what? Thirty or so times we’ve talked about dinner, and it never occurred to you to say Hey, I can cook!”
“No, baby, it never occurred to me,” I admitted. “I never cook.”
“Well, now you’re going to be doing it at least twice a month from now until eternity,” she warned me. “And I’ll cook twice a month too.”
“Baby, you don’t have to fucking threaten me,” I said, getting a confused look for a second before she burst into laughter.
And, fuck, I could listen to that sound forever.
I was going to make sure I never did anything to threaten that potential future.
“Oh, and your mom wants to know how many kids we’re going to have,” she added as she snuggled into my chest, yawning already.
Kids.
I’d never given them a thought before.
Even if the thought would have crossed my mind, I would have brushed it away as impossible. I would have thought I was tainted. That my genes were no good. That I couldn’t chance the idea of being like my own father.
Now, though?
Now, I was starting to see that I was nothing like him.
And some part of me was curious to see little Cosimo kids with Halle’s eyes and her warmer heart.
“I told her two,” Halle said, letting out a dreamy sigh.
“Two,” I repeated. “Sounds like a plan.”
Halle - 3 years
“Did you find him?” I asked, hearing the panic in my voice, and knowing I needed to try to keep myself calm. I’d been reading this really eye-opening, yet terrifying, book about how generational trauma could be passed down through maternal emotions during their pregnancy. And I was trying like hell to keep myself as temperate as possible.
But when your elderly grandfather went missing, yeah, you started to get a little anxious.
Cosimo moved forward, pressing a finger over the worry lines between my brows.
“He’s playing poker with Ant and the guys,” he told me, smirking.
I wasn’t the only one who’d really taken to being a part of a big family.
I didn’t think it was possible, but it seemed like my grandfather loved it even more than I did.
Gone were his bologna sandwiches. He was eating dinner at a different family member’s house each night of the week.
He was at every holiday, delighting the next generation of kids with the fantastical stories he’d once told me and my brother.
And, apparently, he was gambling with the guys.
“I want to be annoyed because I was worried sick, but that’s kind of the cutest thing I’ve ever heard,” I admitted.
“He was kicking their asses, too,” Cosimo said, smirking. “Ant looked a little shellshocked as he lost another hand. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was cheating.”
Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past the old man.
He used to cheat in board games when we were kids.
The man liked to win.
No sane person would cheat the mafia, but my grandfather knew they would never hurt him, so he felt a certain safety doing it.