Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Where is her mom?”
“She lives in Colorado. You’ll meet her at some point.”
I’ll meet her? That shouldn’t make me so happy, but it does, because that means he plans on me being around awhile.
“So they’re not together?”
“No, they tried to make it work; it just never did. They’re still close, and Winter’s happiness is their priority.”
“I want that,” I say softly, and his face goes gentle.
“Hopefully, you’ll get there.”
“I hope so. I really hate the way things are right now,” I whisper, leaning against the counter as he walks to a cabinet and pulls down two plates. “He called me today, asking if I wanted to go out to dinner with him and Kingston tonight.”
“What did you say?” No anger or worry in his tone, just curiosity.
“No, obviously. But if things were different, I’d like to think I could say yes and have that for Kingston. I want him to see his parents getting along because he matters more than our feelings. I just don’t see that happening anytime soon.”
“It’s going to take time.”
“You’re right.”
“You want wine, beer, water or tea?” He opens the fridge and takes out a beer.
“Wine please.” With a nod, he pulls a bottle of white wine from the fridge and then grabs a glass. “Do you want help doing anything?”
“I got it covered.” He hands me a half-full glass while stealing a kiss, then goes back to the stove.
“Do you cook often?” I ask, watching him place flood on each plate.
“Not often. I normally don’t have the time.” He looks over at me when he has both plates filled. “Are you good with eating in the living room?”
“Sure.”
“Grab my beer, baby.”
I do, then I follow him to the couch and take a seat, and he places our plates down and turns on the TV. When he gets comfortable, I follow suit, and the two of us dig in.
“Who taught you how to cook?” I ask after a few bites. Everything is delicious and definitely more than I could pull off for a quick meal.
“I taught myself.” He looks over at me. “When I was in college, I got sick of ramen and takeout, so as soon as I got a kitchen in the apartment Miles and I rented our second year, I started looking up recipes and found that if you actually followed the directions, things didn’t turn out bad most of the time.”
I smile at that. He seems like the type of person who would be a direction reader and a rule follower.
“Your mom didn’t teach you?”
“I don’t have a mom or a dad,” he says softly, and I feel my heart constrict behind my ribcage.
“What happened to them?”
“Drugs, alcohol, you name it. I was two the first time I was put into the system, and after that, my life consisted of them getting me back only to have me taken away again. Eventually, they were found unfit, but by that time, I was at an age where most families don’t want to take you in. Especially when you’re about to be a teenage boy, and especially when you’re coming from the background I had.”
God, my stomach churns.
“At fourteen, the Patricks took me in. They were already fostering Arya, Miles, and Dalton. Clay came about a month after I moved in with them.
“Arya?” I know the other names, but he’s never mentioned her.
“That’s a story for another night,” he says gently, but there is still an edge to his tone that lets me know even if I ask about her, he’s not going to tell me until he’s ready.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s life.”
“It shouldn’t be.” I pick up my wine and ask softly, “You weren’t close with the Patricks?”
“They were tight with their own kids, and there wasn’t much room for us inside that bubble.” His eyes wander over my face, and he gives me a soft smile. “They were good people, and in the end, they did give me a family of my own.”
Not them, but Miles, Clay, and Dalton. “Your brothers?” I confirm.
“My brothers,” he agrees gently, and I let out a breath, not sure how to feel. Listening to him talk so casually about his past would make you believe he doesn’t have any leftover emotions from his childhood, but how could he not? That’s a lot for one person to go through. Unless he really is just thankful for what he ended up with, so he’s put all the stuff before it out of his mind.
Hearing a knock on the door behind us, he turns his head that way and calls out, “Come in!” Which is worrisome, since the building downstairs is sketchy and it could be anyone.
A second later, the door is opened, and a cute little girl around six or seven with dark hair steps inside with a large dog. “Uncle Tuck—” She cuts herself off when she sees me, and her eyes widen. “Who are you?”