Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Hiring her right then and there seemed like a no fucking brainer.
She didn’t recoil at the sight of my husband – something that unfortunately still happens over his burn scars – had already been vetted by the school – which in itself was a gold medal worthy feat – was enrolled in Ashwin University for early childhood education – with an emphasis of art integration – and could start immediately; therefore saving me the hassle of having to resume interviewing – all by myself – overqualified older women Mom didn’t seem to vibe with or underqualified younger women too anxious to IG their big moment.
And it was by myself because my husband always had other shit that was a tad more pressing.
The pitch for expanding into non-alcoholic beer and mocktails.
Oddly timed calls with Prince Kellan Kenningston courtesy of different time zones.
Extensive investigating and restructuring of any and all shell corporations to ensure there are no more tasseled wobbegongs skirting along his family’s ocean floor.
Oh!
And sobriety assessments.
Those are less rigid than they once were but still fairly demanding.
There’s only so many hours in a day, and of them, I’m first to give up mine whether I want to or not.
Jessie’s porcelain complexion pales in panic prompting her to reach a hand forward, the same hand that I less than gently bat away. “Don’t even think about it, Red.”
“But-”
“No.”
“But-”
“Still no.”
“But-”
“What’s the rule?”
Her gothic, Muppet Babies crop top t-shirt covered shoulders sink in defeat. “Two-minutes or less, it’s all for show, anything more and it’s all a go.”
“And it rhymes so it must be true.”
She fights the urge to let her rose pink matte painted lip spread into a smile.
“Trust me. That asshole’s not hurt.”
“Don’t think you’re supposed to call him an asshole.”
“He’s being an asshole. What else would I call him?”
Uncertainty causes her mouth to twitch yet nothing to come out.
“Age doesn’t exempt you from being an asshole, Jessie.”
“Brain chemistry in development should exempt you from being called an asshole though.”
“That’s just textbook talk for you to feel guilty about calling an orca a dolphin.”
“Aren’t those different animals?”
“Taxonomy, say no.” One glimpse over my shoulder reveals to me that not only is my son not crying, but that he also seems appalled by everyone’s lack of concern, including Lurch who is casually casing the perimeter of the extensive extending playground. “And momonomy-”
“Is that a real thing?”
“-says his ego is hurt.” Our blue gazes lock once more. “His body is fine.”
Jessie grabs her own glance of my headstrong offspring before whispering, “I just hate hearing him so upset.”
“Yeah,” I sweetly smirk, “that’s what he’s banking on.”
“It’s not totally my fault,” she rushes to defend while retrieving her vibrating cell. “According to my biology class – that specializes in focusing on the brain’s chemical developments and responses to offspring stimuli – women have an instinctual reaction to respond to crying children whether it’s their own or someone else’s.”
“And here I thought aquatic chemical ecology was the most boring class to ever skip.”
“I don’t skip classes.”
There’s no stopping my head from sarcastically tilting.
“Often,” snickers my son’s nanny prior to unlocking her device. “I don’t skip classes often.”
“Good because if you didn’t skip classes ever, I’d have to fire you.”
She pauses the phone checking movement to present me with a quirked eyebrow.
“I can’t have that shit around my kid.” Amusement ambles itself around my expression. “He has to learn irresponsibility.”
“You mean responsibility?”
“No, I mean figuring out that you can’t spend the night before your big intro to bioinformatic exam challenging the cute freshman from Deer Groove, Texas to a tequila tornado competition you know you’re going to win.”
“And did you?”
“I sure did win the prize of puking between answering statistical questions about algae and someday…my son will win it too.”
Laughter leaves her again prompting me to glance in my little stubborn cadet’s direction to see him now “tying” his shoe again aka buying him more time to see if anyone is coming to his rescue.
We’re not.
And my lack of Carol Brady attitude keeps most of the other moms around this busy place from trying to play hero.
I’m not mean.
I’m just trying not to raise him into an asshole.
Er.
Into more of an asshole than he already is.
Which he gets from Wes.
It’s genetic.
Pretty sure.
A disgusted grunt pulls my attention back to where Jessie is shoving her phone into her cutoff jeans back pocket. “Problem?”
“Annoyance.”
It’s my turn to lift my eyebrows.
“I thought it was an email about our quiz grades being posted, but nope. Just another text – this one from Christine – asking me if the older guy I’m hooking up with is my boss.”
“Why would she ask that?” Holding my own irritation at the shore isn’t easy. “You say some shit about how hot his ass looks in his suit pants or something?”
“While they do,” she casually agrees in a way that gets me smirking, “the answer to that is, no. I rarely text anyone other than my bestie about shit like that. I don’t trust people. And trash tabs like Global Laundry – who is the one printing lies about me and Wes hooking up – sooooo doesn’t help that shit. I swear one of their interns is like…stalking me. Anytime I go to Loca Mocha Casabloca with Astrid, this chick is always right behind us in line, like she’s just waiting for me to let something slip out about you guys.”