Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
The kids rush back from playing video games a few minutes later, including my eleven-year-old, who marches over to me.
“Is it time for that pecan pie, Dad?” Mac gives an exaggerated wink.
I wink right back. “Sure is. And why don’t you take the whipped cream to the table?”
She delivers a crisp nod. “Diversion tactic. No one will know why I’m claiming the best seat in the house.”
Leo shakes his head in amusement. “Chip off the old block.”
“She sure is.” I squeeze Mac’s shoulder rather than patting her head. She’d be annoyed—rightfully so—if I messed up her perfect French braid.
I open Bibi’s fridge and hand her a can of whipped cream. “Here you go.”
“This is the best,” Mac says, then whispers, “my camera’s in my back pocket.”
“Good job,” Leo whispers back.
“You can thank me when you see the pics,” Mac warns and then spins around, her long braid swinging as she goes. She sets the can on the table, then claims the chair closest to Leo’s, and calls out, “Who wants pecan pie?”
Time to assemble the stragglers.
Like Brady and Fable, who’s missing now as well.
Brady is not only Fable’s boyfriend but also Leo’s cousin. I hardly knew Brady growing up. He’s several years younger than Leo and me, and I know my friend will want him here for the big moment. Leo’s always looked out for his family. He’ll also want Fable at the table since she’s Charlotte’s older sister.
And what Leo wants, Leo gets.
I turn to head down the hall in search of them, only to find Brady walking toward me, head down like a naughty dog retreating to his crate.
Right behind him is…the caterer? She’s wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.
My brow creases. Where did these two go? “Did you find the wrapping room?” I ask Brady skeptically.
Something about this guy rubs me the wrong way. Hell, something about him has bugged me each time I’ve seen him. I can’t say that to Leo, of course. I haven’t said that to anyone. Not even Bibi.
Brady jerks his gaze up, his expression chastened. But he quickly rearranges his features. “Yup. Wrapped the gift too. It’s here in my pocket.” He pats his pocket, which looks suspiciously empty.
Iris says nothing, she just purses her lips as she passes me, a guilty look in her eyes.
Something is definitely up. But before I can do more than frown, the guest bathroom swings open, and Fable emerges. Her auburn hair is damp by her ears like she just splashed water on her pale, freckled face.
She looks far prettier than is good for me, and this isn’t the first time I’ve thought that about my employee.
3
MY FASHION ACCESSORY
Fable
I’m fine. I’m totally fine. A little water, a little lip gloss. No one will know I’m angry.
Make that livid.
But I’m also not completely surprised about the ‘nog job. Not because Brady’s a hanger-on, not because Brady wears out all his welcomes, and not because he’s a scheming, two-timing jerk apparently—though he is absolutely all those things.
But because…relationships always break down.
Like my last one. And the one before. And, oh say, my mom and dad’s. Which broke down over and over and, yup, say it one more time, over again.
Romance and I aren’t vodka and tonic. We’re orange juice and toothpaste. But no one needs to know that.
I step into the hall, plaster on a smile, and run right into…the man who signs my paychecks.
Great. Now I have to fake it for him too. I smile wider, brighter. “Hey there, boss man.”
Wilder cocks his head, studying me like he has X-ray vision and can see inside my soul. Nope. No one can. I zip up my soul suit so it’s impervious to his perceptive eyes.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Everything is great!” Was that too cheery? Maybe.
“Are you ready for dessert?”
“Ready to skip it,” I say, patting my belly, like I’m too full to stomach pie, especially pie made by Iris. Maybe I can skip dessert. Skip out of this meal and go grab a pint of Molly Moon’s ice cream and binge a comedy on Webflix while knitting the blanket I will probably still be curled up in alone when I’m fifty.
But Wilder gives a professional smile—the same one he flashes when he wants someone to attend a meeting. The smile that says it’s not optional.
“Just sit with us then for a minute,” he says, and this feels like a clear order. A kind one, but an order, nonetheless. There will be no skipping out.
“Sure,” I say, then he walks with me down the hall, peering at me again with some concern.
Wilder stops before we reach the living room. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I force out a bubbly laugh. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I’m not about to tell him Brady was coming down the caterer’s chimney at his Thanksgiving.