Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
“Oh, just finish that so I can get you another. If you’re drunk, they can’t matter.”
I smiled and raised my drink in agreement.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The last rays of sunlight were bleeding into twilight. Music played softly from the living room television, mingling with the sounds of cooking, laughter, and the occasional clink of glasses. The aroma of Naija’s infamous mac and cheese drifted through the air as it bubbled in the oven.
I was on salad duty, diligently slicing cucumbers, and cherry tomatoes into a bowl. My fleece hoodie had long been abandoned, leaving me in an oversized sweater and leggings, my sleeves pushed up to my elbows as I worked.
“Don’t forget the dressing,” Daniella teased as she walked by, snagging a cucumber slice from the cutting board. “And no cheap bottled crap. We have options.”
“Do I look like the type to cut corners?” I shot back with mock offense, tossing the sliced vegetables into the bowl.
I finished tossing the greens and moved to the bread. Daniella handed me a baguette and some garlic butter with a flourish.
“Don’t burn it.”
I gave her an exasperated look, slicing the bread carefully. “I won’t burn it, but if you don’t stop acting like I can’t outcook you in my sleep, I may burn you.”
Her jaw dropped. “Rude.”
“She does have a point,” Naija cut in. “You burn pop tarts.”
“That was one time!”
I waved her off and refocused. As I worked, the familiar rhythm of being in the kitchen with my friends felt comforting. Cherish wandered in from the living room, her eyes lighting up as she surveyed the scene.
“Looks like things are under control here.”
“For now,” Naija replied, stirring a pot of gravy with a wooden spoon. Her long locs were pulled into a loose bun, and she’d dressed up for this as if it were a formal dinner.
She looked every bit the queen she always carried herself as. “Okay, before I get too sidetracked, I’m about to lay down some rules.”
Cherish laughed. “Oh, this should be good.”
Naija set the spoon down with an exaggerated flourish, turning to face all of us. “Listen up, ladies—and gentlemen,” she added, casting a pointed glance toward the living room where Jason, Ryan, and Gabe were lounging. “Rules for the weekend: One, no talk of exes.”
She didn’t look at me as she said it, but I felt the weight of her words anyway. From the way she yelled loud enough for everyone to hear, I gathered I wasn’t the only one in the crosshairs. “Two, no phones at the dinner table. This weekend is about togetherness. I don’t wanna see anyone with their face in a screen. They’ll go in the box.”
“What box?” Gabe asked from the living room.
“The one I’ll be putting them in, smartass.”
Jason appeared in the kitchen doorway, twisted tea in hand. “And what happens if we break the rules?”
“Try me and you’ll find out,” she replied sweetly, flashing him a smile. “And three, absolutely, positively, everyone must have a good time. No exceptions. We’re here to relax and make memories, not mope around.”
Daniella slipped through the throng of bodies around the island and raised her glass in a mock toast. “Amen to that.”
“Fair enough,” Cherish said, shrugging. “But you know I don’t do rules.”
Naija rolled her eyes but didn’t push the point. “Just get your ass into the dining room when this is ready.”
Once the bread was in the oven, I busied myself wiping down the counter and cleaning up as I went, anything to keep my hands busy.
As soon as it was done, Naija went into dictator mode.
“Alright, team effort, let’s get this table set. Liza, Daniella—plates and cutlery. Autumn, bring out the salad and bread. Cherish, drinks. Jason and Ryan, you’re on chairs. Let’s move, people.”
We all laughed, moving to do what she instructed. Liza headed toward the cabinets, her long blonde curls swaying as she reached up to grab the stack of plates. Her pale blue eyes scanned the table as she began setting them down.
“Do we need the fancy forks, or are we sticking to average tonight?” I asked with a playful grin, holding up the mismatched set of cutlery.
“Mismatched works,” Naija said cheerfully, waving me off. “This isn’t the damn Ritz.”
Daniella grabbed the cutlery from me. “I got this. You focus on your given task.”
“Bossy much?” I teased, sticking my tongue out.
I carried the salad bowl and breadbasket out of the kitchen, placing them in the center of the table. The bread was golden brown, still warm and fragrant from the garlic butter I’d slathered on earlier. Moose padded after me, his nose sniffing the air eagerly.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned him. He let out a small huff, but he stayed put.
Naija emerged from the kitchen carrying the bubbling dish of her infamous mac and cheese, golden and crusted with breadcrumbs. Behind her, Cherish followed with a pitcher of sweet tea in one hand and a bottle of 1800 in the other.