Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
“Hey, Nelly-girl.” I squeeze her tight. “Sorry, I forgot Ma and Pa had you today.”
Nell pushes her hands against my chest and draws herself back to look at me with her little brown eyes glinting with excitement.
“Ice cream! We’re going for ice cream,” she proclaims. “You’re coming with us, right?”
I groan inwardly.
Nelly-girl knows what she’s doing when she says it like that. Like it’s already a foregone conclusion, and I need a Harvard law degree to convince her otherwise.
“Baby girl, you know there’s a reason I asked Ma and Pa to take you today,” I say. “I’m up to my chin in paperwork. Gotta go catch up.”
My mother leans against the bumper of the Subaru, tall and curvy, her iron-grey hair pulled into a bun.
“You had time to drive out here,” she points out, wagging a finger.
“No ganging up on me.”
“Yes ganging up on you!” Nell chirps with a pout. “You work too much, Uncle Grant. And you don’t eat enough ice cream. If you just ate more you’d smile.”
“Is that so? Didn’t know I had to maintain a minimum ice cream level to look pleasant.” I arch a skeptical brow.
My father leans his arm out the passenger window, offering me an easy grin past his thick silver beard. “You’ve already lost the argument, Son. Only question is if you’re riding with us or taking your patrol car.”
I heave out a heavy sigh, but he’s right.
When it comes to Nell, I rarely win unless it’s something deadly serious.
She’s just too damn good at getting her way.
Guess that’s what happens when you’re not just the big cousin.
Can’t put an easy label on what I am some days. More like the older brother she never had when I’m not busy being full-time dad.
“Fine, I’ll take my car,” I grind out. “That way y’all won’t have to drive me back and eat up more of my time.”
“I wanna go with Uncle Grant!” Nell proclaims, laying her head against my shoulder.
That’s that, I guess.
We split up, and soon I get the full rundown of Nell’s day as I tail my parents’ Subaru for the ten-minute drive to the little ice cream parlor near the town square.
I’m used to it by now.
Thankfully, Nell doesn’t need me to talk much, just as long as she’s sure I’m listening and paying attention. She tells me how she wants to be a professional flower girl.
Probably because she got so much gushing attention looking cute as a daisy in Lucas’ wedding. Big change from last week when she wanted to be a rocket engineer. I’m sure next week she’ll want to be an architect or a postmodern painter selling NFTs.
What can I say, the girl’s bright as hell for her age.
She yammers on about Miss Delilah and how she’s gonna be sad to move on from her class and into Miss Nora’s soon. But apparently, Miss Delilah promised she can come over and play, and when she’s old enough, maybe she can even babysit the Graves’ baby.
When she goes off about how huge Miss Delilah is now that she’s almost ready to pop, I groan and remind myself to ask Lucas if Nell actually said that to his wife’s face and to apologize if she did.
How the hell is someone related to me so talkative?
She sure as hell inherited the Faircross gene for no filter, though.
Girl never knows when to keep certain things to herself.
She hasn’t stopped talking even when we get to the ice cream parlor. She waves impatiently, leading me inside, chattering away as we meet my folks and we all put in our orders and find a table.
My parents end up with modest scoops of mint chip and rocky road. I just snag a cone with the darkest chocolate I can find.
Of course, little Nell orders herself a towering sundae so complicated the poor girl behind the counter looks frazzled trying to keep up with all the fixings.
I balance my cone in one hand as I pull out Nell’s chair so she doesn’t drop that ridiculous sundae.
“Uncle Grant.” She frowns at my cone. “That’s all you’re going to get? You’re so vanilla, Uncle Grant.”
What the hell?
She better not know what that means.
And it’s dirt-black chocolate laced with almonds, thank you.
I choke on my next breath anyway while my dad chuckles. My mother hides a titter behind her hand.
“This look like vanilla to you? Don’t you ever say that again,” I growl, brandishing my cone at her. I slump down in one of those tiny damn chairs that feels like it’s ready to turn into a pile of splinters under me. “That doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
“Huh?” Nell blinks at me innocently. “What does it mean then?”
“Maybe when you’re older,” I grumble.
Like hell.
I may be here raising her since her old man ain’t, but I’m sure as hell not explaining that to her. There’s enough dread with having The Talk at all when she gets older if my folks won’t pick up the slack.