Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80014 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80014 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“No. I think if he did, he would have burned it down while I was gone, just out of spite. I bought it through a holding company that’s impossible to trace back to me, so I assume we’re pretty safe out here.”
He nodded at that, and after we piled the shopping bags on the kitchen counter he said, “You mentioned some clothes up in the guest room closet. I’m going to go change, because I’m getting pretty sick of this same suit and shirt.”
“I’ll take you clothes shopping tomorrow, but help yourself to whatever you want in the meantime. My closet’s fair game, too.”
He thanked me before leaving the kitchen. Once he was gone, I took off my jacket, then removed the holster and gun and stashed them in a drawer. Now that I knew why he had such a negative reaction to guns, I really didn’t want to keep traumatizing him.
I’d finished putting away the groceries and had started on dinner when he returned to the kitchen. He was wearing one of my light gray T-shirts, which was enormous on him, along with a pair of gym shorts, and he looked adorable. I ran my gaze from his bare feet to his slightly tousled hair and grinned. Meanwhile, he scanned the floor, probably on the lookout for another scorpion.
When he sat down on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, I put a glass of white wine in front of him and said, “I’m making pasta primavera with cream sauce. I wanted comfort food tonight, and to me that means carbs. If it doesn’t sound good to you, I can make you something else.”
“It sounds great. I’m always grateful for a homecooked meal, and I’m definitely not picky.”
“I’m the same way,” I said. “The bar went through a rough patch when I was about six or seven, and my mom and I were barely scraping by. Living on a grocery budget of ten dollars a week taught me to be grateful for whatever was put in front of me.”
“We were lucky, because my mom found a job in a mom and pop grocery store after we got settled in Kansas. In fact, she still works there. It was great, because she got first dibs on the clearance bin. Some nights, we’d play mystery meal with cans that didn’t have labels. Would it be corn with a side of peaches for dinner? Or green beans with a side of even more green beans? Nobody knew until the cans were opened. Maybe that should have been depressing, but as a kid I actually enjoyed it. Ma played it up and made me think it was a fun game.”
I told him, “She sounds like a good mom.”
“She is. She’s also a good person. She tries so hard to make the world a better place and is always doing volunteer work in the community, on top of her fulltime job. She devotes her time to dogs, kids, the elderly—if there’s a way to help, she’s all over it.” Jack looked like he was getting emotional, so he took a sip of wine and changed the subject. “Speaking of helping, give me something to do, so we can get dinner on the table.”
“If you want to, you can chop the vegetables that are drying beside the sink. First though, why don’t you put on some music?” I opened an app and handed him my phone as I explained, “The house has a built-in sound system that’s linked to my online Spotify account, so pick a playlist.”
He took the phone from me and chuckled as he scrolled through the list. “Oh, of course. We’ve got Rat Pack, Rat Pack in Vegas, Rat Pack Live, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Junior, Sinatra, more Sinatra—you, my friend, are stuck in a rut.”
“Yeah, but I like my rut.”
“I’m logging onto my playlists,” Jack said. “Not that I don’t enjoy your stuff, but I think it’d be good for you to branch out a little.”
A moment later, the Spice Girls started playing in surround-sound, and Jack flashed me a huge smile. I shook my head and said, “No way,” as I tried to take my phone back, but he leapt up and held it out of reach.
“Yes! This is happening, so stop being uptight and enjoy it.”
“Don’t tell me you actually like this.”
“Of course I do,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re not a twelve-year-old girl.”
“And you’re not a seventy-five-year-old senior citizen, but look at your musical taste!”
“I have great taste,” I insisted.
“So do I, and if you stop being biased and listen, you’ll realize this is such a good song.” With that, he turned up the volume and proceeded to dance around the kitchen while singing along to “Wannabe,” loudly and badly.
It made him so happy that I decided to let him have his fun. I even ended up tapping my foot to the beat at one point, and when he discovered that he yelled, “Ah ha!”