Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Oh, a man who likes to take risks. I like it,” she told me. “Do you have any food allergies?”
“Not a one,” I said as she took the menu from my hands.
“Great. Well, Nino, you are in for a treat!” she declared.
Oh, I had no doubt.
But what I really wanted was her on my table, her legs spread wide, and to feast on her instead.
I swear I was damn near ready to tell her that, too, when the little chirping sound announced another customer.
“Hey, gentlemen!” Savannah greeted, tone bright and happy as she turned to face them. “Can I get you a… oh… no!” she shrieked.
It all happened so fast.
The alarmed cry.
Then, before I could even react, she was knocking me off the chair, her body blocking mine.
The loud bangs of bullets leaving chambers.
Then I watched as her body jolted hard.
Once.
Twice.
Blood bloomed through her white shirt.
Then she was crashing down on me.
CHAPTER TWO
Savannah
It’s not that I particularly enjoyed getting up at five in the morning. But when you ran a restaurant that was only open until lunch, you kind of had to rise with the sun. Especially if you were going to pick some fresh blueberries and raspberries and herbs for said restaurant before you went in to open up for the day.
We split the gardening tasks, me and my mother.
Both of us had green thumbs, but neither had enough time to grow everything we needed for The Brunch Bar.
And growing things was how we were trying to save money to stay afloat until the locals started to get the word out that not only did we exist, but the food was pretty phenomenal.
Did this mean that I had twenty cucumber plants growing at any given time? Yes, yes it did. Because the Pretty Water was a must at The Brunch Bar. It gave both an earthy feel and an upscale one, so depending on the clientele, they were sure to feel delighted by it.
“You were right about the sunshade for the cucumbers,” I called to my mom as I tried to hold the heavy back door open with my butt as I carried in my crates of produce for the day. “They look a lot less droopy today,” I added, putting the crates down on one of the prep tables.
My mother was a much earlier riser than I was. And also, somehow, a night owl. The woman just didn’t require the same amount of rest as us mere mortals, it seemed. Even as a kid, it didn’t matter how early I woke up, or how late I crept out of my room for a snack, she was always awake. Baking bread at two in the morning, painting the kitchen cabinets at sunrise.
“I knew it was something that simple,” she called, her back to me as she leaned over a prep table, adding a cream cheese and vanilla concoction to the top of a puff pastry sheet. “How are you, my precious angel child?” she asked.
See, now, with any other mom, that might have come off a little sarcastic or over the top. But for Sunshine—yes, that was her real name—Vanjoy—also her real name, but for the record, she had changed both names legally when she turned eighteen and decided to go be a hippie living in her van and exploring the country—she meant it with every fiber of her being.
“I stayed up too late painting a mural on my dining room wall,” I told her.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said.
“It may or may not look like a five-year-old did it,” I admitted. As much as I hated it, I didn’t have my mother’s creative side when it came to art. “But it is bright and colorful.”
“Five-year-olds are wonderfully creative. When you were five, you once got into some of my acrylic paints and went to town on your bedroom wall. Making a flower garden, you said. Of course, it did come out looking remarkably like several pink and red vulvas, which took some explaining to the landlord at the time, but it was very well done.”
“I did not,” I said, cringing a bit at the idea.
“You sure did, honey. Of course, this was also around the time of development when you were very curious about your own anatomy, and I had bought you that book about the many different kinds of vulvas to help you understand and accept all the wonderful varieties of female anatomy.”
Yes.
My mother was the kind of mom who bought me vulva books.
There was also a breast book.
And, a little later, a penis book.
My mother was extremely open about human anatomy and body acceptance.
“Was there any more inappropriate art I don’t know about from my childhood?” I asked.
“There was nothing inappropriate about it,” she insisted. “Oh, you once decorated a surfboard for a friend of mine at the time. You said it was a tree. It looked quite a bit like an erect penis with ejaculate spouting out of it.”