Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“Dahlia!” Melinda gasped, a forkful of maple-drenched pancake midway to her mouth. “We had an arrangement.”
“I hereby unarrange it.” Dahlia’s lips thinned into a snarl, and she seemed determined to prove Row wrong. She rounded the counter, grabbing two menus and the lobe of his ear. “He called my eggs dry and my coffee shitty.”
“So is your customer service.” Row doubled down, head tilted to one side. Laughter bubbled in my chest. Row remained Row, even famous and rich.
“Your mother won’t be happy to hear from me about your manners, young man. I’ll be exchanging some words with her later today,” Dahlia threatened.
“Words are fine, as long as you don’t exchange recipes. My sister won’t survive your cooking.”
I touched his arm briefly, trailing behind him. “Not helping our cause of winning hearts and minds, Casablancas.”
“That’s your dream, Cal. Not mine.” He wormed out of Dahlia’s hold, throwing me a mischievous smirk. “I’d rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I’m not.” Of course he was a Kurt Cobain fan. He had the same grungy, don’t-give-a-fuck air about him.
“Thanks, Dahlia. For serving us that coffee.” I shoved Row back into our booth. “We’ll take it with two eggs sunny side up, hash browns, sausage, and a side of fruit. No cantaloupe.”
“Don’t wanna stay where I’m not welcome,” Row grumbled. At this point, I was just pushing him as an excuse to touch him more. “And I definitely don’t want the heart attack that comes with whatever she calls breakfast.”
“Well, we’re staying here as a matter of principle. I don’t like the way these people are treating you. We are not letting them win.” We sat back down.
“Even if we lose?” He scowled at me.
“Even if we lose.” I nodded, aggressively unwrapping my utensils. “We’re going to eat every bite, drink every ounce of coffee, and by God, we are going to pretend to enjoy it.”
ROW
oBITCHuary: Hello.
McMonster: Hi.
oBITCHuary: So…
oBITCHuary: I went back and read through our chats. I totally admitted to you that I’m attracted to my shitty boss, didn’t I?
McMonster: Yup.
oBITCHuary: Enjoying the ego stroke?
McMonster: I’d enjoy it more if you aim south. And, you know, use your tongue.
oBITCHuary: I’m never going to be able to look you in the eye.
McMonster: May I suggest other organs that will welcome your attention, then?
oBITCHuary: I’m so terrified I’m going to yield to temptation.
McMonster: Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll fuck it up before we get to it.
oBITCHuary: WHY are you even interested? You could have any woman in the world.
McMonster: And you’re that woman. Where’s the mystery?
oBITCHuary: I’m completely normal.
McMonster: Respectfully, Cal, you’re not.
oBITCHuary: LOL. I meant average.
McMonster: You’re not that either.
oBITCHuary: What am I, then?
McMonster: If I have a say about it? Mine.
ROW
Space.
I needed it. All of it.
Three oceans between me and Calla Litvin would be ideal. Though I didn’t rule out helping Elon Musk populate Mars and relocating altogether. Why the fuck not? People would have to eat there too. And I was no stranger to shitholes. I had grown up in Staindrop, for Christ’s sake.
What had I been thinking, showing up outside her window like a lovesick puppy in a goddamn nineties outfit? I hadn’t been, of course. It was my dick that had come up with the plan. All puns intended.
I remembered vaguely feeding myself some bullshit excuse about doing this in honor of Artem—the man had helped me turn my love for physics and numbers into becoming a Michelin-starred chef by dragging me into the communal teacher’s kitchen and cooking with me—and something about Dylan being happy.
Point of the matter was, I had done something selfless for someone who wasn’t an immediate family member.
And that was…unsettling.
I’d done good deeds before, but I had never gone out of my way to make them happen. Giving a shit was dangerous. It led to all kinds of issues. And I had a history of giving Cal whatever she wanted without asking for anything in return.
Then there was my retroactive love declaration. What the fuck was that all about? I wasn’t in love with her anymore, but it was still embarrassing to admit.
Maybe because the attraction was still there, despite everything.
I mentally wrote it down on a blackboard a thousand fucking times, à la Bart Simpson.
You don’t like her.
You don’t like her.
You don’t like her.
But I did. Both Cal and Bitchy. A lot.
It was the middle of service, and Descartes was so packed, you couldn’t squeeze a needle inside. Ninety-nine percent of the patrons were out-of-towners, and the one person who wasn’t had a birthday, and her family—from Massachusetts—didn’t know this place was Satan’s favorite section in hell, so they’d booked a table here.
I didn’t mind being the most loathed man in Staindrop. What I did mind was not having a goddamn truck. I had gone to get a rental from the next town over yesterday, and all they’d had left was a pink Jeep Wrangler. I had opted to stay carless until my Silverado returned from the shop and now had to walk everywhere. Descartes was down the street from the Half Mile Inn, so that wasn’t an issue. But I had to get a taxi to visit Mom and Dylan, and fuck knew who had given Cal a ride here today.