Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
The door from the kitchen to the side patio slides open. I turn, but can’t see who it is from here. I was warned that Nadine’s older son Tanner or his husband Billy come in from time to time, since they live on the property in a newly-renovated cabin nearby with their kids. After listening to a few drawers noisily open and shut, I still can’t tell who it is. Sheer curiosity brings me to the kitchen.
Samuel is crouched down, rummaging through a box of junk that sits on the ground by the side door. His back is facing me, but I recognize him at once.
He peers over his shoulder, startled by my presence.
I swear I see a flicker of delight in his eyes when he sees me.
The very next instant, it’s gone. “I’ll … I’ll just be a sec. Left my hammer here. Think someone went and stuffed it away.” With a sigh, he returns to rummaging.
I bite my lip, letting him have his space for a minute.
Okay, for just four seconds. “So did you get whatever it was taken care of at the clinic?”
He half turns, face scrunched up with confusion. “Say what?”
“When you left Biggie’s earlier. The reason you had to go.”
It hits him. “Oh, right. That. Uh … yeah, sure. All taken care of. Luigi De Magistris Baldassarre is still happy and healthy. Hamlet hasn’t died. All’s good.” He resumes searching the box.
I’m certain now there was no urgent matter at the clinic. He just wanted to leave Biggie’s. He couldn’t stand me and Cole.
Still …
I take a step toward him. “Can I help?”
“Better not. Just a hammer.” He clears his throat. “Well, my favorite hammer, actually.”
“Better not?”
“No need to waste your time on me, Malck. I’ll be out of here as soon as I get my—ouch!—” He brings his thumb to his lips for a kiss, scowling, then inspects it. “—my hammer.”
“Did you cut yourself?”
He pushes the box away, rises off the floor, and lets his eyes run over the kitchen. “Nah, nothin’, just snagged it on something sharp in the box. Where could it be …?” He pulls open some cabinets by the sink, then glances back at the side patio, thinking.
I take another step toward him. “Did you try the toolshed?”
“First place I looked.”
“The garage?”
“Obviously, but it’s so big, and I wasn’t in there today. Maybe I ought to go back and check anyway. Someone could’ve stored it in there, thinking it was Paul’s.” He gives me a nod without looking me in the eye. “Thanks for the tip.” He heads for the door.
“I thought about you a lot today.”
That stops him. He half turns his head toward me.
“Wondering if you were okay,” I go on. “That, uh, hamburger really seemed to do you in.”
He makes a face. “Yeah, it sure did. Should’ve seen me an hour ago. Couldn’t get off the damned toilet. Barely took three bites out of one of those devils and I was done for.”
I grimace. “Seriously, Samuel? I didn’t need to know that.”
“Human nature,” he mumbles with a shrug.
Suddenly I’m holding back laughter again. “You’re so gross.”
“What’s gross about human nature? We all get glued to toilets from time to time. Even you. Bet you’ve eaten a spicy taco or two.”
“Are you even trying to woo me anymore?” I ask through my laughter. “Or have you already thrown in your towel?”
“I don’t ‘woo’.” Samuel leaves the door and struts up to me. I draw quiet. “I’m just another fella in Spruce gettin’ by, day to day. I’m myself, all day, every day, twenty-four-seven. I clean up rabbit poop. Dog poop. Turtle poop. You think turtles don’t make poop? Everything makes poop. I get it under my nails, too. And if that isn’t bad enough, sometimes I skip a day of showering, or wear the same pair of jeans all week. You can think I’m gross all you want. We’re humans, we’re messy, we’re imperfect.” He grins in my face. “We all get gross, Malc.”
My heart skips a beat.
It’s been a while since his face has been this close to mine.
Somehow, I forget what we’re even talking about.
“You alright there? Or did I go too far?”
The playful tone of his voice suggests he doesn’t care one iota whether he went too far or not. He loves pushing my buttons.
I take a step back. My heel hits the base of the kitchen island. “Seems my nickname gets shorter each time you say it.”
“Malc, Malckie, Malcolm Tucci … I’m getting the suspicion you don’t care how I say your name, just as long as I keep sayin’ it.”
“Why are you really here?”
“To get my hammer, like I said.”
“Did you really come over here at this hour for some tool?” I smirk. “Or were you just hoping to see my pretty face?”
That knocks the confidence right out of his smug eyes. I see the emotion in them, lit only by the lone light pouring down over our heads and the kitchen island from above.