Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 117249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Seems I lost my shirt.”
“I think you may have given it to me.”
I go to her, placing my hands on her hipbones and kissing her temple. “What are you making?”
She sinks into me, tipping the bowl forward. “Omelets.”
There are half a dozen eggs in the bowl and slivers of shell mixed throughout. I bite my lip to keep quiet, but she catches on, jabbing me in the gut. “Go ahead and laugh. I’m not the best at actually cracking the eggs. I usually boil them.”
“Do you even know how to make omelets?”
“Is it hard? I assumed it was a little whisking, some easy ingredients, and voilà!” She snaps her fingers.
I can’t stop the bark of laughter. Harley has never been a cook. There are a few things she mastered in her teens, and as far as I know, her skills never improved.
“Make fun. Once I get these shells out, I’ll blow your mind with my culinary technique.” She wiggles away, reaching for the carton. “Maybe I should start over.”
“Let me.” I intercept her hand, turn her toward me, and sit her up on the empty counter space. I go through her cabinets and drawers, gathering what I need, and begin extracting the shells.
“You’re good around the kitchen.”
“I’ve learned a few things through the years.”
“Maybe you can help teach me.”
“Maybe,” I mutter half-heartedly, hiding my amusement.
“That didn’t sound convincing,” she huffs.
“If you don’t know how to cook omelets, why try today? I would have picked something up.”
“Because I wanted to do something nice for you on your day off. Since I’m never here for lunch, all I have is breakfast food, frozen meals, and a few snacks. You seem to like protein. I figured an omelet was better than a frozen pizza. People eat omelets for lunch, right?”
My chest seizes at the simplicity of her explanation. Memories of the screwed-up teenage rebellious loner and the pure beauty that befriended him slam into me. There aren’t many people on this earth who have ever given a shit about me.
“Hey.” A soft hand runs along my cheek, and I turn to see her eyes filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re one of the few people who has ever given a shit about me. The Marines gave me a family I never had, but until them, it was you.”
The concern in her eyes swells with pain, and the air between us takes on a new mood. I recognize my mistake immediately, catching the hesitation before she asks, “Then why’d you shut me out?”
There’s a brief second I think about lying to her, but I can’t do it. I drop the items in my hands and move in between her legs, scooting her closer to me. “Because I was a piece of shit that didn’t deserve you.”
Fire flames in her expression, and she opens her mouth to argue before I place my finger to her lips. “I was, Harley. I was an eighteen-year-old punk filled with rage and anger. My dad was a drunk who wasn’t fit to hold down a job, and my mom was an enabler trying to keep her job as a teacher to where we could have food on the table. She depended on me to do the right thing, and pulling my dad’s ass out of bars got him home before he could cause too much trouble.”
“None of that was your fault. You are not your parents. We talked about this many times.”
“You don’t understand. I kept a lot from you. It wasn’t fair to drag you through the ugly side of my existence.”
“I wouldn’t have cared,” she whispers so sweetly, my chest constricts.
“I know. That’s why I had to leave the way I did. Your dad saved me.”
She stiffens at the mention of Rich. “My dad did what? I think you should explain that.”
“April of my senior year, Mom got a call from a bar downtown where Dad was on a bender. By the time I got to him, he’d started a fight with three mean bastards. I walked up to him, getting the shit kicked out of him, and even though he probably deserved it, I had to jump in and help. I was young, fit, and much faster than those guys. Not to mention they were loaded as well. It was a tough fight, but I got them down. By then, the cops had arrived, and lucky for me, Mom had called Rich. One guy on the ground was fighting for his life because my kick to his chest punctured a lung. They rushed him to the hospital, and I was responsible.
“Rich was furious with me for not calling him, but he got my ass out of a sling and I wasn’t arrested. He asked me that night what I wanted out of life—what kind of future I could have with a criminal record. My answer was immediate; I wanted to be a Marine. The next day, he drove me to the recruiter’s office, explained my situation, and I committed. As soon as I knew I passed high school, I shipped out.”