Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I check the peephole, and then open the door in surprise. “Archer?”
“Since when have you started locking your front door?” he demands, as though I’ve committed some crazy offense.
“Um, since a strange man started letting himself into my house?” I say as he nudges me out of his way and steps inside. “And I really only left it unlocked during the summer because it was easier to come in and out as we were working on the greenhouse.”
He grunts in minimal acknowledgment.
“Happy Thanksgiving, by the way.” I nod at the shopping bag on his arm. “What’s that? You finally come to replace some of the food you’ve been stealing?”
He reaches out toward Lillian’s octopus-shaped coat rack and pulls off my navy puffer coat, shoving it at me before heading toward the back of the house.
“Bring a hat with you,” he calls back. “But not that ugly one with the stupid flaps.”
“Those stupid flaps keep my ears warm,” I mumble, grabbing the ugly hat in question, as well as a pair of mittens, since we’re obviously going up to the roof like a couple of lunatics in the middle of a major cold snap.
I hear the door to the roof open and close, and then open again. “Two wineglasses, Randy. The nonfussy ones with no stems. Oh, and that pie.”
I make a mocking salute even though he can’t see me and, grabbing the glasses and pie, hurry up the steps before he can bark any more orders.
Archer is already seated at the little outdoor table, though in a rare show of politeness he pushes out my chair with a booted foot.
“Kylee told me that she and your guy were headed out of town for the holiday,” he says, pulling a hat of his own out of his winter coat and putting it on. It’s blue, and it makes his eyes look bluer.
“When did you speak with Kylee?”
“The other night. On the roof. She talks a lot.”
“Oh, that’s right. I see she’s graduated from ‘the kid’?”
Archer shrugs. “She informed me that addressing her as ‘kid’ was supercilious. I had to look it up.”
“She’s right. It’s a little condescending.”
He rolls his eyes and changes the subject. “Be useful. Unpack that.”
I do as he says, pulling out two sandwiches. The logo sticker holding the parchment closed is from the fancy sandwich shop up the street.
“Lona’s was open today?” I ask, surprised.
“She opens for exactly two hours every Thanksgiving night. Best damn turkey sandwich you’ve ever had,” he says, standing and taking a long stride onto his roof. He comes back with an enormous basket.
“What is—oh!” I say, pleased when he pulls out a warm, thick blanket and hands it to me.
“Don’t get too excited yet. We’re sharing that,” he says before pulling out a bottle of red wine. “Sharing this, too. And your pie.”
I set out the sandwiches and some bottled sparkling waters from the bag, while he takes a foldable corkscrew out of the back pocket of his jeans and wrestles out the wine bottle’s stubborn cork.
“I thought you were traveling,” I say, nodding in thanks when he hands me a glass of wine.
“I was. But there’s a blizzard warning in Denver. My flight was rescheduled three different times, then canceled altogether.”
“That sucks. Your parents live there, right?” I say, remembering from reading his natal chart that he was born there.
He nods. “I’m hoping I can fly out tomorrow or Saturday. The leftovers are the best part of Thanksgiving anyway.”
Archer sits down again, then I let out a little yelp as he grabs the seat of my chair and hauls me closer. Unceremoniously, he readjusts the blanket so both our laps are covered, then clinks his glass to mine. “Cheers. Happy Thanksgiving, Randy.”
We both take a sip, then Archer gives me a thoughtful look. “Where are Kylee and Christian again? Washington?”
“Oregon. Christian’s parents and sister live there. He’s from there.”
Archer unwraps his sandwich and takes a large bite. “So you guys, like, a thing, or what?”
“Hmm?” I say, distracted as I watch him wipe a bit of what looks like cranberry sauce from the side of his mouth with his thumb.
“You and Christian. Must be getting serious if you’re cooking for the guy.”
I nearly point out that I also cook for Archer when he shows up unannounced and hungry, though that’s really just a grilled cheese or whatever I’m already planning to have myself.
“We’re increasingly involved,” I say, beginning to unwrap my own sandwich.
He snorts. “You sure know how to romanticize things, Randy.”
“You’re one to talk. You won’t even talk about your girlfriend.”
“Because I don’t have one.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. What do you call the woman you’ve been seeing?”
There’s a long pause. “The woman the gossip sites were talking about is Alyssa.”
“Why do you never talk about her?” I ask.
He says nothing.
“Okay, so you don’t cook for each other,” I prod. “What do you do?”