Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Cooper pulls me on his lap and wraps his arms around me. “We’re glad you’re here.”
Evan disappears for second, then returns with a small box. “Okay. So I was going to sneak this in your stocking later, but I think you should have it now.”
I stare at the box. He’s done an absolutely awful job of wrapping it, the corners all uneven and held down with way more tape than anything the size of my palm should require.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s not stolen.”
I crack a smile as I tear into the present with all the grace of a petulant preschooler. Inside, I find a plastic figure of a girl in a pink dress. Her hair is colored black with a permanent marker and a tiny, yellow crown cut from paper is glued to her head.
“I swear I looked in six different stores for a princess ornament. You have no idea how fucking hard it is to find one.” He grins. “So I made my own.”
My eyes water. Another lump lodges in my throat.
“I wanted to get you something. To celebrate.”
My hands shake.
“I mean, it’s supposed to be funny. I promise I wasn’t trying to be a dick or anything.”
Doubling over, I start laughing hysterically. So hard my ribs hurt. Cooper can’t hold me, and I tumble to the floor.
“Is she laughing or crying?” Evan asks his twin.
It’s honestly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. All the more meaningful that Evan put so much effort into the perfect gift. His brother’s going to have to step up his game if he wants to compete.
Once I’ve collected myself, I get up and hug Evan, who seems relieved that I’m not kicking his ass. I guess there was always the chance the gift would backfire, but I think Evan and I have reached an understanding.
“If you two are done, can we get this damn tree finished?” Apparently feeling left out, Cooper pouts behind us.
“Keep that attitude up and you’re not getting your present tonight,” I warn him.
“Please,” Evan says, hushing us with his finger over his mouth. “Baby Potato Jesus can hear you.”
A few days later, after the most low-key—and best—holiday I’ve ever had, I’m with Cooper in his workshop, helping him dust, polish, and wrap some furniture. I think watching me manage the hotel renovation gave him a kick in the butt to push himself harder with his own business venture. He’s been pounding the pavement and making inquiries, and this week, he received a couple calls from boutique stores that want to sell a few of his pieces. This morning, we sent off new photographs for their websites, and now we’re getting everything ready for transport.
“You’re not selling my set, right?” I ask anxiously.
“The one you never paid for?” He winks, coming up to me covered in the sawdust that clings to everything in here.
“Things got a little hectic. But you’re right, I owe you a check.”
“Forget it. I can’t take your money.” He shrugs adorably. “Those pieces were always yours whether you bought them or not. Once you laid hands on them, it would have felt wrong to let them go anywhere else.”
My heart somersaults in my chest. “First of all, that’s one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said. And second of all, you can totally take my money. That’s the thing about money. It works everywhere.”
“Spoken like a true clone.”
For that, I smack him with my polishing rag.
“Hands, Cabot.”
“Yeah, I’ll show you hands, Hartley.”
“Oh yeah?” With a smirk, he tugs me toward him, his mouth covering mine in a possessive kiss.
His tongue is just slicking over mine when an unfamiliar female voice chirps from the open garage door.
“Knock, knock!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
COOPER
I freeze at the sound of that voice behind me. My blood stings ice cold. I hope as I grudgingly turn around that the sound was a vivid hallucination.
No such luck.
At the entrance, Shelley Hartley stands waving at me.
Goddamn it.
I don’t how long it’s been since the last time she blew into town. Months. A year, maybe. The image of her in my mind is distorted and constantly shifting. She looks the same, I guess. Bad blonde dye job. Too much makeup. Dressed like a woman half her age who wandered into a Jimmy Buffet concert and never left. It’s the smile, though, as she waltzes into the workshop, that gets my back up. She hasn’t earned it.
My brain is reeling. Someone’s pulled the pin and handed me a live grenade, and I’ve got seconds to figure out how not to let it blow up in my face.
“Hey, baby,” she says, throwing her arms around me. The stench of gin, cigarettes, and lilac-scented perfume brings hot bile rising to the back of my throat. Few smells send me so violently back to childhood. “Momma missed you.”
Yeah, I bet.