Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Because I’ll always have what you like at home.”
I chew slowly, watching her attempt to be coy.
“Oh, I see,” she says. “You’re insinuating that I won’t have to worry about having a man over any time soon.”
Ever. I flinch. Easy, Brewer.
The unexpected blast of jealousy catches me off guard. I wipe my mouth with a linen napkin, keeping my eyes on my plate.
“What about you?” she asks, switching gears. “What do you have for dinner?”
“Depends on where we are in the season. A protein, sometimes fish, green vegetables. I like sweet potatoes, pasta.”
“Do you cook?”
I chuckle. “Nope. I order out. It’s my specialty.”
“Well, I love to cook. It’s the only domestic gene I possess. It reminds me of being with my grandmother and my mom, breaking green beans in the summer. Canning tomatoes. Sunday dinners with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and too many salads to keep track of.” She smiles sadly. “I can’t smell fried food without thinking about my childhood.”
I reach across the table without thinking about it and lay my hand on hers. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and full of appreciation.
Blakely has told me that she misses her mom and wants a family of her own so she’s not alone. I’ve heard what she’s said. But this moment, this look on her face, tells me more about what she wants and needs than any story she’s ever shared.
My throat squeezes as I pull my hand away.
“Well, guess what?” I say. “I have a massive kitchen with every gadget in the world. You can cook anything you want, and I promise to eat it.”
She bites her lip and returns her attention to her plate. “What about you? Did your mom cook for you when you were little?”
“Hell no.” I laugh. “She had six kids with six schedules and six sets of friends—and a husband that might come home at four in the afternoon or four in the morning. Unless it was a holiday, we were probably ordering food. She gave up trying to wrangle us while I was still in elementary.”
“Your mom was super sweet today.”
I take a sip of my wine. “Yeah, well, she’s having the best day of her life—I assure you.”
“Can I ask you why she’s so lovely and your dad … isn’t?” She sets her fork on her plate. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask, so I apologize if it’s too personal.”
I sit back in my chair and study her. What an impressive, unique woman.
I’ve never been with someone who asks questions to actually get to know me—the real me. Someone who seems to care. Blakely isn’t pushing or prodding, but she does have an honest curiosity to get to know things about me that aren’t superficial. And I like it. Probably too much.
“Mom was always around,” I say. “She got us off to school, came to the principal’s office when Jason and I got suspended—which happened more than I care to admit.”
She grins, sipping her wine.
“You know, she was at our practices, games, and science fairs. But Dad …” I take a drink and let it settle in my stomach. “He was busy. I don’t fault him for that. I respect it. But he has this warped sense of reality.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as if the only things that matter to him are the things he can write down. The things that get written down. It’s really just a personality conflict between him and me. He gets along fine with my siblings. Well, he and Tate butt heads—stop looking at me like that.”
“Sorry. I’m just excited to get more info about Tate.”
The energy shifts around us, and I place my glass on the table. There’s a challenge on her face, in her words, and whether she’s ready for it or not—I am.
“You’re going to pay for that,” I say.
She lifts a brow. “Promise?”
I don’t answer her, letting her sit with her question and ponder the answer. Instead, I drink my wine and study her pretty face. My wife’s pretty face.
This might be the best mistake I’ve ever made.
“I have something for you,” I say finally.
“What’s that?”
Her tone tells me what she thinks, or hopes, I mean. She’s not wrong. But not yet.
“It’s a birthday present,” I say. “I know nothing can top me as your gift, but I wanted to try.”
She laughs.
I slip the pink box from my pocket and hand it to her. Her eyes widen as it sits in her palm.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Open it.”
I hold my breath as she lifts the top from the box. When she gasps, I exhale.
“Renn! What the hell did you do?” she asks, a laugh painting her words.
“It’s your wedding ring. I mean, if you like it.”
She tears her eyes away from the diamonds. “What do you mean, if I like it? It’s …” She laughs in disbelief. “Did you actually buy this?”