Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 212458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1062(@200wpm)___ 850(@250wpm)___ 708(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 212458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1062(@200wpm)___ 850(@250wpm)___ 708(@300wpm)
I survey what’s in my fridge and see my mother added more food to it yesterday, including more fruits and vegetables, deli meat, and several brown paper butcher shop packages. She also put more food in the freezer. I see a package marked 2 x NY strips, so decide on steak and eggs while putting the other meat packages into the freezer.
While I’m doing that, my text alert goes off.
Riley: Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll stay in touch. Enjoy time with your woman. What’s the story there? Thumbs up on what Dani told you about your situation or thumbs down?
What I saw yesterday, what I can imagine he must be feeling, I’m sure he’s not okay. I also know based on what I went through the week before Amie got here, he’s not gonna want to be coddled. I know I didn’t want that.
We’ll be here when he needs us, however he needs us. And in true Riley fashion, he’s worried about his pack despite what he’s going through.
Me: Thumbs up. All’s above board. Now just to convince my woman of that.
Riley: Glad to hear. Talk soon.
33
Amelia
I don’t know yet what I’ll do next, since my sister is brainwashed and Mason is ridiculously stubborn, but I know one thing – this is a great thinking spot.
The lake, the crispness of the air, the sounds and scents of nature – I’ve been missing this tranquility in my life. I’m on a patio chair on a deck off the kitchen and thinking I should go up to the top level where I can have the same view but with the lounger where I can put my feet up, too.
So many thinking spots. Perfect for sunset-watching. This house, this spot? Perfection.
As I have this thought, my phone pings with a text message from my mom.
It’s official. House is listed and I’m picking up my keys today for the apartment above the dry cleaners in Drowsy Hollow. I’m going to move a few things over tonight and I might even sleep there. And I could have a new job too. They say they might hire me. Been a long time since I used my seamstress skills.
Well, that was fast. How interesting that of all the places she’s chosen to move to, she chooses the apartment above the spot I suspect Mason was at yesterday, getting news about the sorcery involved in our lives. I reply.
Me: Strange question but important and confidential - Who did you talk to about the apartment?
Mom: Did most of it by phone with her. Jessica Young. Didn’t even make me sign a lease. Told her I might buy something local later on. Why?
Me: We’ll talk about it later. xxoo
Mom: You doing okay?
Me: Not! But I guess. Not sure if he’s going to take my phone again. I tried to leave this morning and he brought me back again. Grr.
Mom: He’s smitten.
Me: I need to get my life in order.
Mom: I’ll call you in a few hours? Happy to help you do that, too. Hang in there. Ivy’s fine. Don’t worry about her btw. She’s happy and is planning a wedding! We’ll have a Brennan girl wedding soon after all! Love ya!
Me: So I heard. Love you too.
I’m deleting the message string (all messages will be deleted until I’m not in danger of having my phone confiscated) when the patio door opens.
Mason comes out carrying a tray that’s holding two steaming cups of coffee, salt and pepper, and some bottles of sauces. He sets the tray down on the table. As the cutlery glints, catching the sun, I catch a whiff of delicious aromas from inside the house. He goes back inside, then returns with two plates. He uses his foot to push the patio door closed and then flashes a smile as he sets the plates down.
“Hungry?”
I sigh.
Sometimes, I wish I were the sort of girl who could go on a hunger strike when angry, but I’m not that girl.
I like food. I especially like food when I feel stressed as it releases the happy chemicals in my brain when I don’t feel happy and gives me a little hit of joy. Until the next day when I can’t button my jeans.
The plates have steaks, fried tomato wedges, scrambled eggs with cheese on them, and he’s split an orange in quarter wedges and divided it between the plates.
“Dig in,” he invites and begins to cut into his own steak. Instead of him eating what he’s cut off, he holds his fork out to offer me the first bite.
My eyes narrow while I simultaneously salivate. His smile sparkles with something illicit, so I huff as I tip my nose up at him before daintily biting the meat off the fork.
He watches intently for a moment, and then when I reach for my own knife and fork, he saws into his steak again.