Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Yippee!
“Yes. No tickling. We agreed.”
“No spontaneous outbursts of forced happiness, you mean?”
“No making me noodle-y and snorty, more like. Stop!” I feign left, but he lunges anyway when a little voice speaks.
“What are you doing?”
“Uncle Raif made me spill the flour.”
“Why was he chasing you?” The poor thing looks confused.
“He was hungry.” My eyes dart his way. He still looks hungry. “I wasn’t going fast enough.”
“You still got away.” His gaze drops lazily, tracing my outline with an obvious appreciation.
I spin away before his hot gaze makes me spontaneously combust. I bend and begin to scoop the spilled flour into my hands.
“Uncle Raif! Stop looking at Lavender’s bottom!”
“I’m supervising,” he protests. “Making sure she’s doing the job right.”
“Really?” I snap upright. “You know what? This mess is your fault. You clean it up.”
“Nope.” He snags me around my waist again. “We’re going out for pancakes.”
We give Daisy the choice of where to have breakfast, and instead of The Ivy—Raif’s suggestion—she chooses a café in Kensington. When we arrive, we discover the place is completely pink—the windows, the door, the flowers glued around the windows and doors. And the interior. Very pink. The chairs, the tables, the walls. And the ceiling. Well, the ceiling is mostly pink but for the golden disco balls and a tiny bit of greenery dotted between baubles and the flowers? Also pink. Many shades of.
“Can we sit next to the heart wall?” Daisy asks, tugging excitedly on Raif’s hand. I love this tiny sign of obnoxiousness. She’s really blossoming.
“Of course.” He glances that way. The place is packed. “If we can get a seat there.”
And because the universe doesn’t want to spoil a little girl’s dream Sunday brunch, a table opens up almost immediately. Right next to the wall of (mostly pink) neon-lit hearts.
“Well, look at you,” I say, addressing Daisy who is brimming with excitement as she swings her short legs. “Your T-shirt matches the wall.” It’s pink and dotted with sequined hearts.
She grins.
“We’ll have to buy Uncle Raif a matching one for our next visit.” He looks very out of place in his black cashmere sweater next to the pink wall, pink neon signs, and pink.
“I’m man enough to wear pink,” he says, picking up the menu. “Pink happens to be one of my favorite colors,” he says, in a very particular tone. “In fact, one of my favorite places in the world is pink.”
“Where’s that?” Daisy says, tilting her head her uncle’s way.
“Yeah, where, Uncle Raif?” I pull out my most annoyingly sweet smile and flutter my lashes for good measure.
“Have you got something in your eyes, Lavender?” Daisy asks before turning back.
“Might have.”
“I can’t think of anywhere you like that’s pink,” she continues.
“You haven’t been there,” Raif answers, almost hunching over the tiny table.
“Have I?” I ask.
“I might’ve seen you skirting the edges of the place once or twice.” He mouths, “Stop it.”
The server appears, and we order, eschewing the window full of pink cakes in favor of a proper breakfast. Sort of. Daisy orders Nutella pancakes, I opt for my go-to brekkie of eggs Benny, and Raif orders shakshuka. They’re such pretty dishes, arriving at the table adorned with edible viola flowers—not pinks—which Raif immediately pushes to the side.
“Uncle Raif can wear pink,” I whisper, sotto voce, “but he can’t be seen eating flowers. It might spoil his reputation.”
Daisy giggles, pressing her fingers delicately over her mouth, the little lady she is. Sadly, I end up wearing a globule of hollandaise with my first forkful.
“I only eat one kind of flower,” he says in that tone again. “Lavender, you know that.”
“Raif?” His face hardens very slightly at the sound of his name. Or maybe it’s the voice he objects to. “I thought it was you.”
Heels clack against the tile, and Raif frowns, clearing his throat as he politely stands. Or maybe he stands to try to prevent the proprietary hand that grasps his shoulder. Elegant fingers and long, pink-painted nails that belong to a glamazonian in a pink dress that I recognize as a Zimmerman.
She’s certainly dressed for the place—or maybe for the ’gram. Her dress flares outward like an old-fashioned toddler’s gown. The kind that would be worn with knickerbockers. She could probably do with a pair herself as the hemline skirts the very top of her tan thighs, and the neckline drops almost level with her belly button, where it ends in a cutesy bow. But she can carry it off—from her pink candy-striped stilettos and mini Lady Dior purse to her sleek, blond ponytail and flawless makeup. This woman is gorgeous.
“Hello, Celine.”
Fuck. He went out with this beauty queen?
She presses her body close and her lips to his cheek.
“It’s so good to see you.” She sounds like she means it, and she can’t stop staring at him even as he peels her hands away and holds them in front of him.