Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Mom drops her chin, looking at me like she raised me better than to be this stupid. “Hope, the only thing hotter than summer around here is the grapevine. There’s already been an article in the paper about you bailing on the wedding midceremony, which included newly declaring Roy the most eligible bachelor in town. My phone’s been ringing off the hook with people wanting to ‘check on us during our time of need,’ a.k.a. wanting the scoop from the horse’s mouth, but I’m no jackass, so I kept my trap shut. Not that I knew anything.” She slides that zinger into my gut clean as a scalpel. “And everyone knows about your little chat at the beach because Roy went bursting into the sheriff’s office afterward to whine to his dear old daddy. Apparently, he damn-near wanted the SWAT team called out to the lake because of it too. Fool tried to imply you were being held against your will. As if,” she scoffs.
She lets that sink in, watching my jaw fall farther and farther open as she tells me about what’s been happening in town while I’ve been incommunicado. Once I’m able to focus again, she continues dropping bombs: “Kaitlyn Williams texted her momma last night saying she was hosting you and the quote-unquote ‘hottie tourist’ at the resort social and that you were the cutest thing since the invention of Squishmallows, but she had to keep you from humping each other right there in front of God and everyone. So her mother called me this morning, asking if I knew what my daughter was up to, to which I said, ‘Of course I do,’ even though I still didn’t know a damn thing.” Ouch, another slice. She blinks slowly three times, her glare silently accusing me of the worst crime of all—not telling her what’s going on with me. “Which is about when we decided enough was enough and called this family meeting.”
Okay, so this is what being the flash point at the center of the gossip feels like. Gotta say, I’m not a fan—at all.
“Um, good friends?” I amend my earlier declaration.
“Harrumph,” Dad snorts. I think he’s hiding a grin at Mom’s guerilla-style approach to getting everything in the open. Neither of them are inclined to play games or hide their thoughts.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell them about my doubts about Roy. I knew they’d give it to me straight, and I wasn’t ready for it then. Now, hearing that they don’t think I’m crazy for running reassures me that I’m doing the right thing. For me.
“Ben, seeing as you’re such a ‘good friend’ of Hope’s, I assume you’re staying for lunch?” Mom says. It should be an invitation, but it’s most definitely not—it’s an order. He’s not getting out of here yet, and neither am I. Mom stands to head to the kitchen, but she pauses. “Hope, Joy, won’t you help me?” That’s not a question either. Given the arch of her brow and the abrupt change in conversation, I can expect an FBI-level interrogation in the kitchen.
But it also leaves Ben with Dad and Shepherd.
I look at him, making sure he’s fully aware he’s getting thrown to the wolves as a sacrifice. He flashes me an easy grin, completely fine. I hope he knows what he’s getting into. I’m still tempted to give him a quick kiss—on the cheek, of course—as a goodbye, just in case Shepherd scares him off, but something tells me that Ben’s made of sterner stuff than that and can not only withstand my brother but also possibly give him a run for his money.
Is it bad that I kinda want to see that? A sexy, sweaty, fighting Ben, I mean. Fuck knows, I’ve seen my brother fight more than is reasonable for any human.
In the kitchen, Mom is already pulling a casserole out of the oven. Of course she’s prepared. She and Dad are the ones who called the family meeting, and she probably went straight to cooking as a distraction from my drama. “Grab the stuff to set the table,” she instructs us. “Nothin’ fancy.”
Mom and Dad aren’t traditional types. Sure, Mom cooks, but Dad grills several nights a week. And they both clean up, dancing around the kitchen while doing the dishes together, or assigning one of us kids to do them if it’s a family meal. But it’s bigger than chores and household tasks. They’re partners in every sense of the word, which is what I expected with Roy. That, unfortunately, wasn’t the case at all.
A tiny elf in the back of my mind shoves forward the memory of Ben feeding me pickles and beer on what should’ve been the happiest day of my life but turned into a disaster. I’d gone to bed, too exhausted to worry about the mess, and he’d taken care of it. He’s taken care of me in so many ways. The difference is notable, and I like it.