Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 12
MELODY
“I think I’ll do my normal cheeseburger,” I tell Steph. There are about five or six different meals I order here. At least for dinner or lunch time. I’m a creature of habit. Once I like something, I tend to eat it over and over again.
“You want your normal salad or the mozzarella one?” she asks.
“Mozzarella please.”
“You have mozzarella salad?” Frank asks, flipping the menu to the other side. I think it’s been the same menu for the past ten years, so he probably knows it by heart.
“It’s not on the menu. We have the stuff to make it, so Mark makes it special for Melody.” Steph nods her head toward the kitchen window, where you can see Mark cooking in the back. Frank furrows his eyebrows for a second. I swear he almost looks jealous of Mark making me a special salad. Which is ridiculous since Mark is three times my age.
“I’ll just have whatever she’s having.” He hands Steph the menu.
“You want the burger the same way too?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“All right.” She takes my menu next.
“You don’t have to eat what I eat, Biscuit. It doesn’t bother me. You should get whatever you want.”
“If we’re going to live together, I should get used to eating how you eat,” he rebuffs.
“I don’t always have to eat perfectly. I have mealtime insulin if I want to splurge, but I’m kind of used to eating what I eat at this point.”
“What exactly is a Mozzarella salad?”
“Just sliced tomatoes, mozzarella, and some balsamic dressing.” It’s simple but yummy.
“And a burger is okay?” His brows pull together, and I can tell he’s really thinking this all over. I have the feeling he’s going to be googling the hell out of this.
“I get it with no bun.”
“Right.” He nods. “And your blood type?” I snort a laugh. Frank scowls at me.
“I’m A positive, but I’m fine, Frank. I’m probably in better health than most people in this diner. Type 1 diabetes isn’t a death sentence if you take care of yourself. It’s just a lifestyle change that you have to get used to.”
“I hate that I didn’t know about this.” From his tone, I can’t tell if he’s irritated with me or himself. “I should have responded to your letters.” My heart melts at that. The man really is battling himself when it comes to me. As much as it annoys me, it’s endearing too.
“I wouldn’t have told you even if you had responded to my letters. You had enough to worry about. There is no way I would’ve added to that. That wasn’t the purpose of my letters.”
“Is there anything else I should know? Something else you’re keeping from me?” I think for a second but don’t come up with anything significant. I shake my head no. “There has to be.”
“I have this.” I dig through my purse and pull out a nose spray. “If I ever pass out, you shoot it up my nose.”
“Do you pass out a lot?!” His eyes widen.
“Only once, but it was a sensor issue which has been fixed. I’m fine, Biscuit. I’m not made of glass,” I try to reassure him. He doesn’t seem so sure. “I have my normal checkup in a few weeks. You can come and ask the doctor anything you want.” He relaxes a bit back in his seat. I might be enjoying Biscuit obsessing over me a bit too much.
“You’ve been living alone. What if you passed out at home and no one was there?”
He surprised the heck out of me when he threw out that we’ll be moving in together. I should have told him to pump his brakes, but I’ve been so alone since Grams passed. I hate how quiet the house can get. I often leave the TV on just to have sound when I’m not even watching it.
“Is that point moot?”
“Yes,” he grunts. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. He reminds me of a grumpy bear with a thorn in its paw.
Thankfully, Steph returns with our food. It’s later in the day, so the diner is pretty empty. It doesn’t discourage people from stopping at our table to ask Frank about the investigation. He tells them all the same thing. The investigation is ongoing, giving none of them any details. One little slip and the whole town will be buzzing with speculation.
“Have you heard from Vincent?” I ask as I take a bite of my burger.
“They are staked outside the Finley beachfront property in South Shore waiting for someone to come back.”
“You really think Blake would do this? I don’t see a motive,” I say in a low voice so no one can hear me.
“He and his father misused city funds. I’ve got them on that. We’ll see about the rest once they get here.”