Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 113617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Genny would let Corey go when the sun exploded and took the earth with it. He knew it with the way she looked at his dad, all angry and her cheeks getting pink, when his dad was being a dick to him, and she was around.
He knew it.
No one looked at his dad like that when he was being a dick.
Not his mom.
No one.
Wait.
No one but Genny…
And Duncan.
So he wouldn’t ever lose Dun either.
He’d never lose either of them.
No matter what.
Not ever.
He was safe in that.
Because that was a fact.
Chapter 9
The Drinks
Imogen
* * *
I sat at the bar, knowing this was a bad idea.
There were so many reasons it was a bad idea, it wasn’t funny.
First, Cookie was upstairs, as delivered by Mary, who was already likely back in Phoenix, this as delivered by Rodney.
Chloe wasn’t available to help her with getting my cat and car to me, so she did what Mary always did. Took the bull by the horns and got things done.
So now Cookie, her litter box, her food and water bowls, the placemat I kept under them and about a month’s worth of cat food was up in my suite.
All of that along with the contents of four additional suitcases, including the huge ones I took when I spent time in Europe. Offerings, after I’d unpacked them, that I saw afforded me every possible wardrobe change (for an urban woman on the go, it should be noted, not a woman on a break in a casual mountain town), including accessories that did not stop at shoes and handbags.
I could not focus on why Mary was behaving like I was moving for half a year into the deluxe suite at The Queen.
I had a great many other things to focus on.
I’d managed to be able to spend about a half an hour with my cat in new surroundings before I’d had to go to dinner, and I didn’t feel that was enough time.
She needed her mommy.
I’d been up to check when I returned from dinner, and okay, when I’d opened the door, I woke her up from napping.
But I still sensed the unease.
The second reason this was a bad idea was that, within seconds of sliding on my barstool, Matt had texted.
His text had included four words.
Who is this guy?
And a photo.
One of the ones taken of Duncan and I at lunch.
I’d had no choice but to text back, An old friend of Uncle Corey’s and mine. A long story. I’ll catch you up later.
Matt didn’t reply.
Which was a concern, considering that photo looked like we were on a date, but one hundred percent not a first date.
More like the seven-hundred and fifty-seventh one.
Which, if it was a date with Duncan and me (and it wasn’t), was maybe close to the right number.
But I thought making a big deal about it and pressing explanations on my son, when it was not a big deal at all, and would soon be easily explained away when I could get home and resume normal programming, was not a good idea.
Thus, I let it be.
The third reason was that I had a variety of wardrobe changes, and for some reason I could not even begin to understand, because this was not a big deal at all, I’d changed clothes to go to dinner with Trisha and Scott.
An outfit that Chloe brought over a couple of weeks ago.
Slightly faded dark-gray jeans. Slim black belt. Shiny, silky, blousy off-black top cut low. Stretchy black tank under it. And sexy red pumps that gave some serious toe cleavage.
I’d had a stylist, who Chloe fired, saying, “The woman dresses you like you’re Betty White. You’re fifty-two, not one hundred and two.” And although this was not entirely true, including the fact Betty White was not that old (though she was close), it wasn’t entirely false either.
Now Chloe was my stylist. And after self-appointing this role, she’d dumped half my closet (and by that I meant she auctioned it off for charity), declared my look was “edgy elegance” and then she proceeded to fill my closet with that.
I had to admit, since she took over, I’d made a lot of best dressed lists.
And wearing the clothes she selected for me, I felt like I’d somehow come back to myself.
But this was an issue now.
Because instead of looking like this was casual and it didn’t mean anything to me, and thus I showed at drinks in the same outfit I’d been in at lunch, it looked like I’d made an effort.
Or I was up myself and I couldn’t take Hollywood out of Prescott, which would be totally up myself.
I had a defense.
Mary had not packed a single thing that did not scream “Edgy Elegance!”
In fact, the only non-heeled shoes I currently had access to were the slides I’d packed myself.