Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I turn. He’s standing there, gawking at me.
“What are you waiting for? Put the damned burgers on the grill.”
He nods then, takes the plate of burgers from the counter where I assume they’ve been thawing, and walks out to the deck.
I scrub the potatoes and look for some olive oil, but when I don’t find any, I rub bacon grease on them, cut tiny slits in the top, and then set them on a plate to microwave for five minutes.
They won’t be as good as oven-baked potatoes, but they’ll do.
Since Brock has nothing green in his refrigerator, I resort to the pantry again.
I find a few Mason jars filled with peaches. I grab one. I assume these are Steel peaches from the orchard. Marjorie probably canned them. I can’t imagine that Brock did. After searching through several drawers, I find a jar opener and pull the seal off the peaches. The glorious orchard-fresh peach smell wafts up to me.
For a moment, it’s August, and the peaches are ripe on the trees.
Hamburgers, baked potatoes, and canned peaches.
Good old comfort food.
I grab some ketchup and mustard out of the fridge, but since there are no greens, there will be no lettuce on the burgers. The shredded cheese will have to do, along with a few slices of onion that I quickly cut from an onion I find in the pantry.
I slice open the buns—from Ava’s bakery, of course—that I find in the breadbox.
There. All set for when the burgers are done.
Except for drinks.
I pour two glasses of water, add ice, and set them on the table.
Will Brock want something else to drink? Will he wonder why I’m not drinking alcohol?
I absently touch my abdomen.
I won’t know for another week at least.
Until then, I can’t drink.
I’ll do a preemptive strike. I grab a bottle of Fat Tire out of the refrigerator—seriously, he has beer but no greens—and set it at his place. When he asks me why I’m not having one, I’ll just say I’m not in the mood.
Simple enough.
A few moments later, when Brock hasn’t returned, I walk onto the deck—
“Brock!” The scent of charred beef hits my nose with a vengeance. “What are you doing?” I run to the grill, open the lid, and flip the burgers. Flames erupt.
“Shit,” he says.
“Where’s your mind today? These are ruined.”
“I’m sorry. Let me get a few more from the freezer.”
“You stay here. I’ll get the burgers. I’ll grill them.”
Sammy is running around the yard, chasing after something invisible.
And Brock? Brock is not here. And that concerns me.
I head back to the kitchen, grab the burgers out of the freezer, bring them to the deck, and place them on the grill. I close the lid and set the timer on my phone for four minutes.
Then I stand next to Brock, watch Sammy running around the yard happily.
He’s definitely not himself. Usually, when something is bothering him, he grabs me and kisses the air out of my lungs.
Tonight though?
His mind is somewhere…dark. Somewhere very dark.
My timer goes off, and I flip the burgers. I set the timer for two minutes.
Once the burgers are done, I transfer them to a plate. “Come on,” I say to Brock. “Everything’s ready.”
He follows me in, and I place a burger on a bun for him, add some of the shredded cheese and a bit of onion. Does he even like onion? Too bad now. He’s getting some. If I’m eating onion, so is he. We’ll cancel out each other’s onion breath.
Though I’m not sure, at this point, that my breath matters. He hasn’t so much as touched me since I got here.
I place a potato—cut open and steaming with butter, salt, and pepper—next to the burger, and then I add a few canned peaches to complete the meal.
“Sit down,” I instruct him.
He sits down, his eyes glazed over. I shove the plate in front of him.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
I didn’t come over to cook dinner, but I don’t mind. I’m no gourmet, but I can certainly handle burgers and microwaved baked potatoes.
But if Brock and I have any future at all, he’s going to have to learn how to eat vegetables.
CHAPTER TEN
BROCK
I’m a piece of shit.
I told Rory I’d feed her, and what do I do? I burn the fucking burgers. An idiot can make burgers, but I burn them.
But she’s not complaining. She made the burgers, made some baked potatoes, and opened a can of Aunt Marjorie’s peaches.
I invited her here, and I have nothing in my kitchen, but she managed to make a meal out of it.
I don’t deserve her.
I should let her go.
Let her walk away unscathed.
She’s got her own issues, and I can’t drag her into mine.
But here’s the kicker. Her tormentor—Pat Lamone—may be related to me.
Fuck it all to hell.
She’s a wonderful woman. She’s not trying to get me to talk, which I appreciate. Though I suppose I should speak up at some point.