Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)
Glory takes her mom’s hand and drags her away. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone?”
“I was making cookies for you last night, baby. I didn’t realize I’d have to watch the driveway in my own house.”
“The cookies are damned good, too,” I interject. I shove the remains of my third treat into my mouth. Judy beams at me.
“Glory’s a good cook as well,” she lies.
“He already knows the truth, Mom.”
“Well, why would you admit to being terrible in the kitchen?” Judy lightly slaps her daughter across the arm.
“Because the first time I cooked anything, it would be obvious.”
“She doesn’t need to cook,” I intercede. “I’m fine with eating at the diner, and I’ve got a few things I can make.”
“See, Mom. He doesn’t want me in the kitchen.”
I do, but not for cooking. The kitchen table is perfect eating height, and I’m not talking about food. Over her mom’s shoulder, Glory reddens. She can read my thoughts perfectly. Even better, I think she’s traveling down that delectable, naughty road with me. I’d lay her out on the pine and let her legs dangle off the edges while I bent forward and feasted on her sweet cunt. After she’d come a time or two on my tongue, I could pull her onto my lap, and she could ride my cock until she was pleading for mercy and I was coming like a train.
“Fine. So have we talked wedding plans? We could have a beautiful seaside ceremony over in Kissme Bay. Didn’t one of the Becker boys get married there or am I confusing him with someone else?”
This time it’s Glory’s turn to swat her mom. “What are you saying? You said you would cool it!”
“I am cooling it!” cries Judy. “It’s not like I asked to see the ring or wondered when you were having babies.”
“Oh my God.” Glory buries her face in her hands.
I take pity on her since she looks like she’s about to combust. “Let’s canvass the neighbors,” I recommend. “Maybe someone will have seen something across the street.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea.” Glory scoots around her mom.
“I’ll make breakfast,” Judy calls after us as we cross the street.
“My mom is just joking about the wedding and babies stuff, you know,” Glory says.
“That’s disappointing,” I murmur.
Glory stops short in the middle of the road. “What?”
I shrug. “I like babies and I like weddings and I like you. Seems like putting all those things together would be perfect. Come on.” I grab her arm and pull her to safety. “I don’t want you to get hit before we walk down the aisle. Who lives here?” I point to the small yellow house with a row of flower boxes attached to the front porch. Small red flowers spill over the sides. The lawn is nicely trimmed, and the siding appears freshly painted. This is a person who takes care of their space.
“Mrs. Edison lives here. She’s a widow. Her husband died five years ago from liver cancer.”
“Booze?” I raise my hand to knock.
“Yeah. Way too much. Frankly, I think Mrs. Edison doesn’t miss him too much.” Glory waves a hand around the front yard. “When Mr. Edison was still alive, the lawn was overgrown in some places and dead in others. The flower boxes were empty, and there was trash on the porch at all times.”
“Marriage isn’t for everyone.” I knock.
“How do you know it’s for you? Have you lived with someone before?”
“Not since I was eighteen and living with my parents.”
The door opens before Glory can ask me more questions. An older woman wearing small glasses and smelling like lavender peeks out from behind the front door.
“Hello, Glory. What brings you over to my house, and who did you bring with you?”
“This is Corby O’Neal. He bought the Secret Lane house.”
Mrs. Edison’s eyes widen. “You must have a little money, sonny.”
“Mrs. Edison!” Glory exclaims.
“Corby O’Neal sounds like that author, but you don’t look like an author.”
Glory sighs, but I’m intrigued. “What’s an author look like?”
“For one, you need a pair of these.” She taps her spectacles. She looks at my fingers. “And you don’t have any ink there.”
“It’s all digital now these days,” I tell her. “Computers and tablets and keyboards.”
She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Real books were written on typewriters. These new writers aren’t putting out the same sort of stories.”
“Typewriters do have a certain charm.”
“Tom Hanks collects them, you know. He’s a real man,” Mrs. Edison informs me.
“I like him, too. Speaking of Tom, you didn’t see someone looking like him loitering around Glory’s house, did you?”
“Tom Hanks around Cherry Falls?” Mrs. Edison hoots. “Frank Edison rising from the grave is more likely. I did see that Toscati boy’s Camry though.”
“Mark Toscati? The accountant?” The same guy I’d followed out to the beach. I thought he was a criminal. The backseat gave him away. No law-abiding person keeps that much trash in his car. I turn to Glory. “I think you have your story.”