Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“So? You interested?”
“Definitely!”
Three hours—and a lot of nudity, violence, and profanity—later, Harris called for an intermission. The show was good, but damn it was messed up.
“My brain needs a break,” he insisted, and Tina laughed. “This is some heavy shit, man. Let’s watch the news instead. It’s bound to be lighter viewing than what we spent the last three hours watching.”
“You’re being dramatic,” she said, still laughing. “You were completely riveted.”
“Well, I didn’t say I hated it. Just needed a break. Are you hungry?”
Tina, who had been curled up on the comfortable easy chair, unfurled her legs from beneath her butt and stretched luxuriously.
“I could eat.”
“I’m thinking takeout?”
She laughed again. “It’s like you’ve forgotten that there are only two eateries in town. Well, one and a half: I don’t think Ralphie’s serves anything other than basic pub food. Stuff like fish and chips or burgers and fries.”
“Well, I’ve heard the newly reopened MJ’s has fantastic food,” he said with a wicked grin. He was sprawled out on her sofa, his feet dangling over one arm and his head resting comfortably on the other. Her chair was at the end by his feet, so he could see her without straining his neck.
“We don’t have a take-out system in place.”
“You should get on that, soon. It’s a great way for the dumb assholes who are too stubborn to come into the restaurant to at least sample the food.”
“I suppose we could arrange a small take-out menu,” she said thoughtfully. “Pizzas and pastas, maybe. But I’d have to look into carry-away containers first.”
“You have doggie-bag containers, don’t you? Use those in the meantime.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Well, I’m going to call and place an order.”
“The staff won’t accept telephonic orders.”
“They will if you call,” he said with a sly grin. “It’s a good way to do a test run. Call in, order, and pick up. See how it goes.”
She lifted her thumb to her mouth and gnawed at the nail. Harris watched her ruminate over his suggestion, obviously wondering if looking into the idea could be considered breaking her self-imposed rule of not accepting his help or advice.
“Fine,” she finally decided, reaching for her phone. “What are you in the mood for? And don’t expect me to pick it up. I’m off duty. If I go into the restaurant, it’ll be like work. I’ll do my boss thing and fuss. Not that they need me. They’re perfectly fine without me.”
He wondered if she knew how wistful she sounded.
“You’re the boss—none of them would have work without you,” he pointed out gently.
“Yeah, well . . . for what that’s worth.” Something in the way she said it made him pause. But he didn’t comment, wanting to ponder over it for a while longer.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he eventually said, in response to her original question. “Tell them I’ll be around to pick it up in ten minutes.”
The food wasn’t done by the time he got there, so he popped into the back office to see how Greyson was coping with his babysitting duties.
As it turned out, the answer to that question was not very well. At all.
Harris stood in the doorway, his eyes wide and his jaw slack as he watched, completely unnoticed, as Greyson paced up and down the tiny office. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, the top button of his shirt undone, and he had a towel thrown over one shoulder. The towel seemed to serve no purpose at all, since it was the other shoulder that was covered in spit-up.
In his arms he held his squirming, screaming, clearly unhappy nearly five-month-old daughter. He was attempting to rock her, but her tiny body was tense, and she refused to be soothed.
“What the hell?”
Greyson didn’t hear him. His desperate eyes were fixed on Clara’s angry face, and he was pleading with her to stop crying.
“It’s okay, darling. It’s all right. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Daddy’s here.”
“Greyson!” Harris raised his voice, and his brother’s eyes flew up to meet his. It seemed to take him a second to register Harris’s presence.
“Harris! Oh, thank God you’re here.” Greyson’s voice was urgent, with naked relief in his eyes. Harris had never seen his suave brother this harried before, not even during those dark days immediately after Libby had left. And that was saying a lot. “She won’t stop crying. I think she’s sick. Do you think she’s sick?”
Harris stepped forward and took Clara from Greyson, cradling her in the crook of his arm and resting the back of his hand on her forehead.
“She doesn’t feel feverish.” Clara stopped screeching, one plump fist crept into her mouth, and she suckled, her big eyes fixed on Harris’s face.
“Oh my God, she hates me.” The comically dramatic exclamation from Greyson would have made Harris laugh if his poor brother didn’t look genuinely gutted by the possibility.