Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
“No, I haven’t.” I shake my head, even though I fully believe him, and her...I think.
Granny might’ve just made up the steak and salad thing as an excuse. But I also can’t put it past her to whip up a secret stash of country wine. Wasn’t there a big jar of something in the garage fridge?
“I told her I thought most grandmas make strawberry rhubarb jam or pie,” Quinn continues. “She made sure I know she’s special.”
“Ha, I heard that part,” I say. “And now I guess I know what’s in the big glass dispenser in the spare fridge.”
“Might have to sample that stuff someday. Give the old gal her due.”
“Careful, Quinn. Knowing Granny, it’s probably stronger than straight-up moonshine.”
“Hell yeah. I’d be disappointed if it weren’t.”
We share a laugh and then chat about the homes and little shops we pass until he parks in front of the diner. Little wooden airplane cutouts with DALLAS on them cling to every lamppost, a cute reminder of the town’s oil history, back when Jonah Reed used to tell everyone who’d listen that Amelia Earhart was a distant relative of his.
He even staked North Earhart Oil’s name on the alleged ancestry.
“Wow. So this place actually won best burger in North Dakota?” I ask, nodding at the flashy sign in the window for the first time as we walk to the door.
“That’s what the sign says, so it must be true.” He opens the door and holds it for me.
So maybe I’m blushing, okay?
We both order the Mack burgers, their trademark dish. It’s loaded with a big mess of gooey cheeses, fried pickles, and hot peppers, plus a basket of fries bigger than my head. Oh, and it’d be downright sinful to turn down a frosty strawberry shake on the side.
The shake alone would give my mother and Jean-Paul a double heart attack.
In an odd sense, that feels good.
Defying them, taking a day off counting calories and fats and macros, ordering for me with Quinn’s lovable encouragement.
“What are you smiling about?” Quinn asks, leaning back in his chair.
I wonder if it’s how his taut white shirt stretches over the miles of muscles he’s packing now.
“The food!” I tell him, rubbing my hands. “I’m starving, and I can’t remember being able to finish a whole Mack burger back when we were young. Lord knows I’ll try tonight. Jeez, I don’t even recall the last time I ate a hamburger. Probably a birthday or something.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I’m serious. Our dance group had really strict standards and a killer fitness routine with a nutritionist. I’ve broken it a few times already since arriving at Granny’s, that’s for sure, but...not to this extreme.” I nod at the waitress carrying two tall glasses of pink deliciousness topped with whipped cream and cherries. “And I plan on thoroughly enjoying every second.”
He thanks the waitress and then looks at me.
“Ladies first. Tell me what you think.”
I take a draw on the straw and nearly melt at the heavenly taste of rich ice cream, juicy real strawberries, whole milk, and just the right tartness.
“O. M. G.”
I flop back in my chair.
More than a little scared I might have a spontaneous milkshake orgasm in front of him.
“That good, huh?” He laughs, slapping his hand gently on the table. “Should I call you an ambulance?”
“Yes. Maybe. I...oh, Jesus, it’s divine.”
Or else I’ve just been deprived like a starving monk.
“Why such a strict diet anyhow? Dancing must burn up a shit ton of calories.” He looks at me, taking a sip off his own shake.
“Yes, but it’s more than just the calories. It’s the macronutrients, the carbs, the supplements...a whole lifestyle that has to be maintained. We put lean proteins first—baked or grilled, never fried—carbs in moderation, endless leafy vegetables...” I rattle off my diet, sadly aware of how slim my pickings became after summers with Granny ended.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his green eyes bulging comically in that oh-so-Quinn way. “Sounds like a starvation death march to me. Didn’t you ever snap?”
I shrug. “I never had time to think about it. My meals were premade and stacked up in my fridge, usually. Perfectly planned out and labeled. Sure I’d go out for a nice dinner every so often or cheat during the holidays, but I mostly stayed true.”
“Who did the meal planning?”
“My mother,” I say, blocking a frown with another big sip of strawberry ambrosia.
So maybe Granny’s right. Mother has ruled too much of my life for too long.
She always claimed she was doing everything to give me a leg up over the other girls. The money my parents dropped on a high-end meal service was like nothing to them and made things far easier for me.
Mom was doing me a favor, yeah, but she was also doing herself one, too.
The realization is a stinging slap across the face, really, but I won’t let it drag this night down.