Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Her forehead creased with confusion as she slid down onto a cushion. “Um, Cuba…?”
“Well, yeah. With Russia on one side and the US on the other.” I extended the bag of chips to her in a silent offer. “What country do you think it’s going to be? Egypt? Libya? Syria? Egypt is unlikely, but I think it’ll start—”
“Mister!” she squeaked, the very picture of flustered. “I’m-I’m actually not clueless about the situation in Africa and the M-middle East, but right now you’re just trying cram my head with words until I can’t process them, and well fucking played, I guess, because I give up.” She huffed, out of breath, and slapped her hands to her face.
I grinned and threw a couple chips into my mouth.
Fuck, how I loved this. I loved our dynamic. She could brighten my day so easily.
“Are you ready to tell me why you’re really here?” I asked knowingly.
“Fine.” She shot me a scowl, though she failed to hold it for more than a second. Instead, she grew uncertain and almost shy. “Mom and Dad surprised me with a fifty-dollar gift card to my favorite store after the meet, and it’s what I was missing to afford a new tempering machine. Well, technically, I was missing thirty-two dollars.” She cleared her throat. “And eleven cents. Plus tax.”
“Okay.” I waited for the punch line. Also, I didn’t know she was still into making chocolate treats. I probably shouldn’t be offended by the fact that I’d never gotten to try any, considering I’d messed with her about chocolate and all things sweet.
“Mom’s tired and Dad’s had whiskey, so they can’t drive,” she went on, wringing her hands awkwardly in her lap. “The store hasn’t closed yet…”
And she was truly eager to get her hands on that machine, I assumed.
Christ. Unlike Willow, Pipsqueak had actually gotten her driver’s license, but she didn’t have a car of her own yet. So, she’d run over to her sucker of a neighbor and hoped he wouldn’t say no, regardless of the fact that it was past eight.
Past eight. Fucking hell. I sounded more like I was turning eighty-two, not thirty-two.
“All right,” I agreed. “Might as well pick up some pizza on the way home.”
My original plan had been to turn this bag of chips into my dinner.
“Really?” Pipsqueak lit up like the sun.
I smiled and stood up. “Let’s go. I’m just gonna grab a hoodie.”
Thirteen
That was how I found myself in a completely dead store that sold everything one might need in a kitchen at eight thirty on a Saturday.
We had half an hour before they closed.
Pipsqueak knew exactly where she was going, and she literally dragged me along with a grip on my arm.
“You don’t realize how big this is,” she told me. “It will take my truffle making to a whole new level.”
My mouth twitched.
We ended up in an aisle near the back, and Pipsqueak let me go and smiled in satisfaction at some box that showcased a machine that looked much like a regular fryer. Same size too. Well, compared to those some people had at home. The Quinns had one.
I stuck my hands in my pockets and eyed the gadgets around us. We were definitely in a section dedicated to candy making. While she inspected the machine she was buying, or rather, the specs on the back of the box, I scanned the rest of the selection. There was one that looked more professional, and it had a pop-up card next to the price tag that said it was the customer choice of 2010. We were less than three months into 2011, so I reckoned it was still a popular pick.
“You’re really into this hobby, huh?”
“This is more than a hobby,” she said. “It’s my future.”
I chuckled.
She smiled slightly and peered up at me. “I’m serious. I’ve done the math and planned everything. After I graduate next year, I’m going to stay with Ryan in San Francisco and study chemistry. At the same time, I’m gonna attend a private culinary institute, starting with a twelve-week program in the basics. After which, I’ll complete a sixteen-week program for pastry chefs. And I’ll be done with chemistry by then, so I can take a class in business economics too.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. I had nothing.
Other than, goddamn.
“I’ll be done in two years,” she went on. “Ethan helped me with a risk calculation, and we believe a pastry shop here in the Valley will do well. At this point, there’s only one—at the mall.”
At the risk of sounding like a broken fucking record… Pipsqueak was growing up.
“I’m impressed,” I admitted. “You’ve thought this through.”
She stood a little taller and went back to inspecting the box, grinning to herself.
Business economics too? That was excellent of her. Many craftsmen and small business owners didn’t think that far.