Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“No, Taylor.” I laugh. “I’m not going to date your boyfriend’s mom.”
She huffs. “You’re letting all of that”—she sets the pitcher down and waves her hand up and down me like a game show hostess—“go to waste.”
“How do you know what I’m letting go to waste?”
“You can’t be doing anything too fantastic because you’re in here every damn night.”
“Touché.”
She rolls her eyes.
The food and company are both good. Why go anywhere else?
“We’ll take the check whenever you get a minute,” Lark says, smiling.
“Will do.” She swipes the pitcher back up and looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “But I’m charging you for double the potato salad.”
“It’s a small price to pay for avoiding a date.”
She loads our empty plates—and the mayonnaise bottle that Lark can’t eat without—onto her tray. “Do you dream of being alone for the rest of your life? Who hurt you?”
It’s a joke. I know Taylor. She’s a sweetheart. If she had any idea of how on point her question really was, she’d shit.
“He has mommy issues,” Lark says, winking at me.
“It’s more like the idea of not having anyone else’s problems to manage, or feelings to consider, or crap to move on the bathroom counter so I can brush my teeth in the mornings sounds like heaven,” I say.
Taylor makes a face at me, expressing her exasperation, and then scurries toward the kitchen.
The day’s final rays of sunlight filter through the windows, bathing the dining room in a warm, muted glow. Familiar scents and friendly voices fill the air, creating a relaxing, homelike ambiance that attracts as many patrons as the food. As much as I love the fish on Friday nights and the homemade soups for which Betty Lou is regionally famous, it’s the vibe that brings me back.
I yawn, stretching my legs out in front of me.
“How did the walk-through with Weatherspoon go today?” Lark asks, rolling his straw wrapper into a tiny ball. “Did he sign off on the house, or was he a dick?”
“Well, he’s always a dick . . .”
Lark chuckles.
“He signed off. I think he would’ve kept us there indefinitely, spinning our wheels, thanks to his pissing match with the inspector.” I roll my head side to side to keep tension from settling in the back of my neck. “But the owner happened to come by the house—pure happenstance—and gushed over how much she loved the woodwork. I think that helped get us out of there.”
“Probably. What are you working on next?”
“We’re starting on a farmhouse out by Fell’s Creek. It’s not a huge job. We’re renovating what’s there and adding a sunroom on the south side. It’s good money for what it is.”
“That’s how we like it.”
I grin. “That’s how we like it.”
“You know what else we like?”
“What’s that?”
A slow, mischievous smile splits his cheeks. It’s his feral smile, and enough to strike fear in a mere mortal. But I’ve known Lark long enough to know not to be scared. Just wary.
“We like five foot one, maybe five two, dark-blond or light-brown-haired women who are wrapped in a towel in the middle of the yard and look at us like we’re the man of their dreams.”
I sigh, tilting my chin toward the ceiling. That was not how Gabrielle looked at me. Damn it.
Somehow, the idea that someone saw the snake debacle a few hours ago didn’t cross my mind. But it should’ve.
And I should’ve known the news would make its way to Lark.
Nothing about what happened should make this conversation awkward. Aside from Gabrielle being beyond beautiful and knowing how she feels in my arms being impossible to wipe from my memory—especially after not having a woman in them except for superficial encounters—our interaction was a thing that happened. Maybe it’s a story brought up over beers or a laugh to be had when I see a snake going forward, but it wasn’t a big deal.
So why does it feel like one?
“I’ve waited the entire meal for you to bring this up,” he says, smirking. “It’s funny that you didn’t.”
“Is it? Because I’m sure you had things happen today that you haven’t told me.”
“Trust me, my man. If I had an angel fall from heaven and land in my arms—”
“Shut the fuck up.” I chuckle in disbelief.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “See, if you would’ve brought it up, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it. But . . . you didn’t. And that makes me think there’s fire behind that smoke.”
“What?”
“You know, that whole ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire’ thing. That’s this.”
I take the bill from Taylor, wishing she’d stay and chat. Much to my dismay, she slips the paper into my hand and keeps moving.
Lark sits back. “Did she have a bad personality? Bad breath? Was she mean?”
I fight a smile from forming on my lips.