Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 17
RIX
There’s a shift with Tristan after our date night. He’s the first person to text me in the morning and the last person to text me at night. And he’s more affectionate. Or as affectionate as he’ll allow himself to be. He’ll come up behind me and wrap an arm around my waist. His other hand ends up around my throat. He’ll nuzzle into my hair and press his lips to my skin. At first, I expected him to whisper something dirty in my ear, but he just stands there, breathing me in for a minute. Then he kisses my cheek and walks away.
As the first game of the season approaches, I hold off on looking for an apartment, like Tristan asked. Eventually this has to end, but I’m in no rush to get there. And it seems he isn’t either. We’re definitely not hate-fucking anymore. But qualifying it as anything else seems like a bad idea.
It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Tristan is working out with Dallas and Roman. I’m prepping meals. I want them eating the right food for peak performance.
Flip walks into the condo looking like he needs a nap and a shower. “Hey, sis.” He gives me a side hug, and points to a freshly made yogurt parfait. “Can I eat this?”
“Of course.” I pass him a spoon and the box of granola.
“Thanks.” He takes a seat across from me, and dumps granola on top. “I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he says before he digs in.
“That’s because you’ve been keeping the bunnies happy.” I squeeze lemon juice on the apple chunks and add those to another parfait. The apple cinnamon ones are Tristan’s favorite, whereas Flip prefers melon.
“Fair. You got plans this afternoon? You want to hang out?” he asks.
I stop cutting fruit. “You and me?”
“Yeah. We haven’t done much of that since you moved in. Hell, we haven’t done much of that since we were kids.” He frowns, like this bothers him.
“To be fair, when we were kids, you were forced to bring me along until I could stay home on my own,” I point out.
“You got dragged to a lot of street-hockey games and arcades,” he muses.
“The street-hockey games I didn’t mind. The arcades were boring as hell.”
“Wanna play a round of mini putt and eat some East Side’s?”
“I could be convinced. I just need to finish up here.”
“You want help?”
“I’m good, but thanks.”
“Cool. I’ll hop in the shower. Then we can roll out.”
I put away the prepared food while Flip showers, and when we’re both ready, we take the elevator to the parking garage. I bring a cooler bag with an ice pack for my leftovers. I’m always prepared.
“The job is still a good fit? You liking it okay?” Flip asks once we’re on the road.
“Yeah. It’s so much better than my old job, and more interesting. Thanks for letting me tweak your financial portfolio. It helped during the interview.”
“My investments are up more than fifteen grand since you did that.”
“That’s great!” I can’t imagine making fifteen grand in a span of weeks from investments, but it’s all relative.
“I had no idea how much I was spending on takeout and bars. Well, I could’ve guessed about bars, but the takeout was a lot. I’m gonna miss all the good food when you get your own place. And having someone do all the shopping and food prep...” He runs a hand through his hair and frowns. “How are you getting all that shit done and working full time?”
I shrug. “It’s no big deal. I like grocery shopping and making meals. It’s my happy place, and I’m not paying rent, so this is one way I can contribute.”
“We’re giving you enough for the groceries? I don’t want you spending your money on food when you’re doing all the prep and shopping. I know you’re used to taking care of that stuff on your own, but I can help,” he says.
“Between you and Tristan, there’s always more than enough.” I don’t say anything about my own food budget.
“I noticed the OJ from concentrate, Rix, and the fakle syrup. You don’t need to buy separate stuff.” That’s what we always called fake maple syrup.
“I like it better.”
“No you don’t.” He stops at a light. “You can and should be using what’s already there. I get where you’re coming from. Logically, unless I develop a serious drug problem, I have enough money to last a couple of lifetimes. Sometimes I worry, but I don’t need to. So let me and Tristan take care of the groceries while you’re staying with us.”
“I never want to go back to the way we were,” I admit.
“Me neither. It’s why I have all the investments and endorsement campaigns. You’re making okay money now, though? They’re paying you well?” he asks.
“Yeah. Eighty thousand a year to start, with end-of-quarter bonus opportunities. I should be able to afford a nice studio.” I just have to get over paying two thousand a month for four hundred square feet of space.