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)
“She didn’t use enough butter.” The father of my future child gripes while shaking his head in disapproval. “That just wasn’t enough, bro.” A small sip is had prior to him tipping the bottle towards the screen a second time. “Tell her that just wasn’t fucking enough, Kutner! For fucks sake, tell her!” He tosses a piece of popcorn in his mouth and smacks, completely clueless I’m watching. “He better fucking tell her. He better not let me fucking down.”
“Unfortunately, Sheryl, you didn’t use enough butter,” the male on the show states.
“Booyah, motherfucker!” Brendan victoriously exclaims, fist thrown up in the air. “That’s my boy!”
My head tilts to one side in utter confusion.
Is this really happening?
Is he cheering on some fucking cooking show the way I do a hockey game?
Is he broken?
Is this…normal?
No.
This can’t be fucking normal.
I mean…it’s amusing as fuck, but definitely not normal.
“Celebration shot!” Brendan announces and effortlessly tosses a piece of popcorn over to the window for Cookies and then another for Cream, both catching it in the air.
Playfully, I call out, “One more for me, brah.”
He thoughtlessly grabs another treat, shoots it my direction, and I crane my neck forward to ensure it lands on my tongue rather than the ground. Brendan initially grunts an impressed sound, however, about four seconds later, he realizes I’m not a goat and that he has been caught red handed doing whatever weird shit he’s doing.
“Holyfuckingshitballs!” is the garbled reaction that accompanies his body flailing around to an upright position. “What are you—Why are you—Where did you—How long have you-”
“Why are you making a bigger mess for housekeeping to clean up today?” I ask at the same time I send my pets away and climb through the large, open window. “You think they need practice for when we eventually have another toddler running around the place?”
The age jab receives a small twitched playful glare. “You shouldn’t be climbing around like that.”
“I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”
“Har-”
“Moving on.” My frame parks itself on the arm of the dark, navy-blue couch. “What in the actual fuck are you watching?”
“What’s Cookin’, Good Lookin’.” He dusts away the final bits of his snack to the hardwood floors. “It’s a cooking competition show in which these four contestants compete for a chance for their favorite judge on the show to come over to their house and cook a huge meal for their friends or family. The catch? They have to do it while wearing a specific set of clothes.”
“Is that why everyone looks like they were just kicked off the set of Downton Abbey?”
Brendan’s face doesn’t hesitate to scrunch in confusion. “You watch Downton Abbey?”
“Of course I don’t watch Downton Abbey, you fucking plug. Margot does. It reminds her of a simpler time she appreciates.”
“A time before hockey was invented?”
“Hockey has been around since the 1800s, Disney Junior, so no.” The smirk I let slide on my face is extra sarcastic. “It’s the pre social media, cellphone, internet shit. I have no doubt that if she could time travel that’s where she’d choose to go.”
“Where would you go?”
“Forward to when we’re winning another Cup.”
Brendan allows a flicker of a grin to appear.
“Now, why do you watch this shit?”
“Like this particular show or cooking shit?”
“Uh…both?”
“My favorite chef is on this one-”
“Kutner.”
He places his beer bottle down on the coffee table and cringes. “Exactly how long were you watching me watch this?”
Instead of a direct answer, he’s delivered a wink.
“Cooking competitions are just something I kinda got into. One day while I was visiting my mom, she was watching a marathon, and I got sucked in, and then next thing I knew any time I had the remote in my hand, I was putting one of these on.” His bare shoulders innocently bounce. “I like the adrenaline and the cutthroat nature some of them get and watching the fucking clock countdown. It’s fucking intense.”
Perplexity pierces my stare once more. “We’re talking about…cooking shows, right? Not sports?”
“Cooking is a fucking sport!”
The sneer he’s immediately given gets him laughing.
“Why don’t you sit your ass down beside me, I’ll make some more popcorn, and I’ll show you what the fuck I’m talking about?”
“Hard pass.” My head rapidly shakes. “Besides, we’re working today.”
“Uh…today’s my day off.” His eyebrows dart down in immediate concern. “Did I read the scheddie wrong?”
“No, and gino for calling it a scheddie.”
Pride pumps away in his brown gaze, and his shoulders push themselves back a bit.
What can I say?
I’m a sucker for a dude who talks my language.
“You’re off from your job so to speak but not exactly because we’re going shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“Yeah. As much fun as it is watching you sport out of season gear around the barn, it’s a bad look for me. I look like a shitty GM and honestly, I don’t need any help in that department, you feel me?”