Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
It’s my turn to offer her an expression of adoration. “Tate’s a really amazing guy. He cooks – happily. Like I never have to worry about what’s for dinner. He either makes enough for a couple days of leftovers before he leaves for work or brings me something home from the restaurant. He cleans, albeit, not the best with a vacuum or bottle of glass cleaner, but he really does make an effort to not turn me into his maid. Most importantly, he never forgets about me. He calls or texts everyday no matter what either of us are up to. Since we’ve been together, not a single day has passed by in which he hasn’t called me beautiful in one or all three languages. And he’s always there without having to be told to be there when I need a laugh or a shoulder or snarky comeback.”
“Oh, he gets that snarky comeback shit from his father,” she teasingly insists. “I’m all the other wonderful parts.”
It’s impossible not to snicker or think back to how Cora said the same thing.
Is this something all mothers believe?
Did mine?
Will I?
“I know what you do for him,” she sweetly states once my light laughter dies down. “Whether he’ll admit it or not, you ground him.”
There’s no stopping a puzzled expression from appearing.
“Tate floats. It’s not entirely his fault.” Her hands are thrown up in a guilty fashion. “So many different cooks in the kitchen all at once isn’t ideal for giving him sturdy footing. Pulled and tugged between various languages and foods and customs and traditions really leaves a young soul with no choice but to float in order to survive, but I think in all the drifting he never learned to put his feet on the floor. Decide on a direction. Think about life past the next shift or party or holiday.” Unexpected pain pulses through her gaze. “We want our son happy, that of course is the most important thing, but we don’t want him to be afraid to build a life, either. We want him to have a foundation that isn't so moveable. Honestly, we both thought it was a lost cause until he came over for dinner last weekend, asking his father about business licenses and loans and how to look for property, which really excited Ronan since he works in construction and all that shit is right up his alley.” Her smile returns yet again. “I don’t know what you said or did, but you got the boy at least considering touching down, and for that, we’re grateful.”
There isn’t time to dig for more information or even express that I didn’t really do anything other than encourage him to talk to some dude he met while training about a possible business endeavor due to our significant others inevitable arrivals.
“What are we grateful for?” Ronan questions as he places a beverage down in front of his wife.
“Someone being willing to put up with your son,” she playfully replies with a wink to me.
“He’s my son when someone has to be put up with him, but that also means he’s my son when he wins that dance contest in an hour,” Tate’s father proclaims while my boyfriend places a cup in front of me and a plate between us.
“No,” Rosa promptly disagrees. “No deal.”
Their lighthearted bickering becomes background noise courtesy of the way everything else naturally fades from existence when Tate’s within touching range.
Kissing range.
He slides one arm around the back of my chair and brushes his lips sinfully against the shell of my ear. “These pants were not made for how you’re making me feel in them, bella.”
I helplessly beam and blush.
“I cannot get you home, naked, and screaming soon enough.”
Blush and beam.
“We will be leaving the building right after I win that contest.”
Shaking my head slowly is done on a teasing smirk. “And what happens if you lose?”
He pulls back to give me the sarcastic look of a lifetime.
“You’re so fucking arrogant.”
Tate picks up his beverage after pointing a finger his father’s direction. “Runs in the bloody veins.”
“Sláinte!” Ronan exclaims, swinging his red, plastic cup his son’s direction.
“Sláinte!” my boyfriend replies on the clink.
They chug back a bit of whatever they’re drinking prompting me to ask, “What’s in there?”
“King of Punch,” Tate informs and puts his down. “Tastes like a Honeycrisp apple that’s been filled with vodka.”
The lifted brow that he’s given is mindless.
“Everything in Applecourt is pretty much apple. Even the wedding cake,” he picks up the fork, “has an apple flare. Elvis’s actually wedding cake was yellow sponge with apricot marmalade and a kirsch flavored Bavarian cream while this one,” a stab is made to the piece I’m assuming he intends for us to share, “is yellow sponge with apple marmalade instead.”
“I traded spuds for apples,” Ronan chortles between gulps of punch.