Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“There is one in my bedroom.” He points at one side of the house. “The guest bathroom is right there.” He points at the other side of the house. “You can use either.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and even though my feet want to go to his bedroom, I walk to the other side of the room, into the guest bathroom. Once the door is closed behind me, I see that it’s really Saige’s bathroom. Her towels are hanging on the hooks, and her hairbrush is by the sink with a couple of hair ties. A laundry basket on the side is halfway full, and her toothbrush is in the holder with a tube beside it.
“He had a life after you,” I remind myself. “You need to move on.” I wet my hands and dab my cheeks before wiping my hands on a towel hanging on the rack and stepping out.
Brock is in the kitchen. The steak is on the table, along with a plate of potatoes next to a bowl of salad. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I shrug.
“I’ll get used to it.” I smile at him. “Now, where do you sit?”
He pulls out the chair he sits at, and I look at him. “Where does Saige sit?” I ask, not wanting to sit in her seat, and he motions to where I put the empty plate down before. I smile and walk over to the opposite side of the table next to him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, and I sit down and smile up at him.
“It’s her spot, and no one should take it.” He nods as he sits down in the chair beside me. “It smells good.”
I grab the salad bowl and put some on my plate before offering it to him. “Stop making this weird.”
He chuckles as he grabs the bowl from me. “This is fucking weird,” he finally admits as he puts some on his own plate. “Never thought I’d be sitting at a table with you.”
I grab the plate of potatoes. “Well, to be honest, I never thought I’d be sitting at a table with you either.” The two of us just laugh as he takes his bottle of beer and brings it to his lips. “So now that all the heavy stuff is sort of behind us”— I cut into the steak he put on my plate—“Charlie and Autumn?” I question, and he nods.
“Did you hear about Brady and Winston’s wife?” he asks, cutting his own steak. “Well, ex-wife now, but it was so—”
“I know, Autumn told me a little bit about it.” I shake my head. “Crazy, right? Like holy shit.”
“It’s good for Wyatt,” he says, of Harmony’s little boy, who Brady has taken under his wing and treats him exactly like he’s his. “He had a sorry excuse for a father, and now he has a real father.”
“I mean, Waylon wasn’t much of a prize, and I don’t want to talk ill of the dead.” I cut another piece of steak. “Actually, fuck that, I don’t care. I hope he’s rotting in fucking hell where he belongs. He ruined all of our lives. And like the coward he was, he’s not even here to face it.”
Brock leans back in his chair. “Even if he was, you think he would have answered for any of it?” I look at him, thinking, I was hoping with the time that went by, looking at him wouldn’t make my heart speed up. Hoping with the time that went by, that looking at him I would forget how much I loved him. Hoping with the time that went by, I would be able to sit at this very table, or any table, and not long for him. To be in his arms. To be kissed by his lips. To be loved by him.
“You’re right,” I agree with him, blinking away the tears. “As always,” I joke, and he puts his head back and laughs so loud I can’t help but join him in the laughing.
We finish eating the meal not really saying much, not sure what to say. When I push away from the table, I start to help him clean up. “Where do you want to have dessert?” I ask when I wipe the water from my hands. I can see the twinkle in his eye, and then he looks away as he smirks. “For my donuts,” I stress, and his eyebrows just shoot up at me. “That didn’t sound better either.” I toss the dishrag at him, and he catches it with one hand as I stand in front of him.
“We can have it outside, sitting on the porch,” he suggests. “Do you want coffee?”
“No, I have to be up at three,” I explain to him. “I’m making the donuts in Mom’s kitchen.”