Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
The thought of Margot has me investigating her absence. “Where’s your Dobermann this morning?” Needing to adjust my official Dalvegan Dragons polo momentarily distracts me from staring at her tits which are pouring out of her top. “Why isn’t she barking at me about the usual shit? You know, the wrinkles in my shirt, the way my collar is tucked in,” I move my fingers to fix that, “or the way one set of shoelaces is tied too loosely.”
“She’s shopping.”
“Needs a new leash?”
“I apparently need a whole new wardrobe for this pregnancy season thing and cannot be trusted not to find or invent a loophole that will allow me to continue to work in my preferred attire.”
“Crop tops and sports bra?”
“Yeah,” she sighs in an exasperated fashion, “and just the idea of having to abandon all I’ve ever known is why I didn’t get any sleep last night. That and…missing my dad.”
“You know it’s okay to miss him, right?”
She doesn’t nod.
Or look over.
Or even acknowledge she heard what I said.
“Don’t let anyone give you shit about that, Harlow. Missing him doesn’t make you weak or feeble minded or mean you need to check your pocket for a tampon. It makes you human. And I know how much you hate to be human, Superwoman, but you are.”
The sound of the gate shutting behind us precedes her shooting me a good-natured grin. “Well, this spawn growing inside of me reminds me of that shit every time I go to the bathroom. Evidently it believes that vomiting is a great way to keep my abs tight as fuck during this pregnancy thing.”
“You hydrating?”
Her head tilts in curiosity of the question.
“Hydration is key shit on and off the ice.”
“Someone’s been reading their work manual.”
“Someone’s also been using their time alone while you’re off at business dinners or employee functions or charity ice cream eating contests to Google healthy pregnancy tips like stretchmark remedies, best stomach pillows, and great recipes for each trimaster to ensure you and the baby are both getting enough nutrients.”
“Trimester,” she sweetly corrects, “and your search history better not include prego porn to go with all that.”
“What about most comfortable sex positions for pregnant women?”
“Videos?”
“Photos.”
“I’ll allow it,” she states in an impish tone.
Light laughter leaks free from both of us as we arrive at her SUV. “Seriously, Harlow. The last thing I want is you not getting enough water or electrolytes back in your system and ending up in the hospital over some shit we could’ve avoided. So, I’ll pick up some specific alkaline water when I hit the store for dinner shit after work.”
She shoots me another teasing smirk. “What are you gonna do? Uber to the grocery store?”
“If you don’t wanna let me borrow one of your vehicles, then yeah.” My refusal to back down is emphasized by a slightly cocked head. “I’m getting you what you need and shit to make you a dinner that hopefully has something with a little more sustenance than the fake cheese dip, saltines, and ginger ale you’ve been sucking back rather than actual meals.”
Harlow tries not to swoon at the protectiveness being flexed yet fails, forcing her to cover up the sound with a stuttered question. “You can cook?”
“Didn’t have a choice if I wanted to eat when I was growing up.” Letting my demeanor resume its normal loose state happens absentmindedly. “There were times where Mom worked a job that she wouldn’t be home until right around when I was going to bed and other times when she was working two jobs, which meant I’d be lucky to see her at all, so I learned pretty early on how to use the microwave and the stove and studying how my friend’s moms did shit. And when I got older, I just took over the responsibility completely.” An intrigued hum wedges itself between thoughts. “Come to think of it. Anytime I’ve lived with someone I’ve always done the cooking.”
“And you may continue that pattern with my blessing because I can’t cook for shit.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Like at all?”
“Like you should just be grateful I know how to make fucking coffee.”
Our shared laughing is interrupted by a yawn leaving her prompting me to state, “Why don’t you let me drive and just rest for a little longer?”
She playfully wags the remote my direction. “You need more hours with an adult to finally get your license, huh?”
The eyeroll delivered during my stroll around to her is as lighthearted as the jab back, “Relax, Geriatric Jones. I promise to obey all of the still relevant traffic laws.”
Harlow smirks and offers me the object. “You sure you know how to handle something this big?”
“Remind me to send you a dick pic on my first break.”
More laughter fills the air and continuously does while we get settled inside.
It isn’t the first time I’ve driven an SUV; however, it has been a fresh minute, which has me much more tense and alert than normal.