Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Norton’s got a case of sticky fingers. I caught him trying to make copies of some of the city contracts. Actual physical copies on the copy machine of entire files.” I roll my eyes at the absurdity. Ben Norton has been the city attorney for nearly thirty years, overseeing everything from contracts to helping my dad, the former mayor, with legal advice to keep the city running right and proper, and I’ve been his right-hand man since I did my internship with him years ago. There was never a question where I’d go to work after law school. My place was in Cold Springs, at city hall, as Norton’s heir apparent.
“He said it was ‘for old times’ sake’ and when I called bullshit, he admitted to wanting to have a backup ‘in case you messed up.’” I mimic his shaky voice, which despite its weakness had hurt my feelings, given our solid work experience together. “Seriously. Like I’m the one who’ll mess up city contracts when he doesn’t understand a thing about the twenty-first century. He didn’t know to include social media clauses in employment contracts, for God’s sake.” I’m waving my hands around and looking at Mom like can you believe that? as I rant.
Maria sets down plates filled with shrimp and rice in front of us and then adds a glass of sparkling water for me when she tops off Mom’s. “Eat. You’ll feel better,” Maria tells me. It’s her solution for most things, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I take that advice regularly when she’s the one who’s cooking.
Mom’s smile is gracious as she picks up her fork, taking a small bite. “Mmm,” she moans. “I don’t know how you do it every time.” The compliment makes Maria blush in delight. “And you, honey—” She pins me with a blue-eyed stare. “Be nice to Ben. That poor man has been through the wringer and then some. God rest his Margaret’s soul.” Mom presses a hand to her chest and looks toward the ceiling. “Retiring is hard when it’s the only thing he has left. He’s not worried about you. He’s worried about not being needed.”
I sigh, knowing she’s right. “I am being nice. You know I love Ben, and Margaret was always nice to me. But if he doesn’t hurry up and retire, I might be forced to help him out the door. With a good, solid shove.” Scrunching up my face, I mime pushing old Ben Norton out of city hall like a dog that won’t go outside to shit in the rain.
Mom laughs, but quickly covers her mouth. “Wren, you’re terrible.”
I shrug, laughing too. “You made me this way.”
We eat a few bites in companionable silence, waving as Maria disappears upstairs with plates for Leo and her. So when the doorbell rings, we both jump. “You expecting someone for dinner?” I ask, and when Mom’s brows lift, I add, “Is this another setup? I swear to the almighty Taylor Swift that if you invited some frat boy fresh out of medical school for a li’l meet-n-greet with yours truly, I will cancel our dinners for a month this time.” She’s not too worried about my single status with both of my older brothers married, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t be over the moon if I did pair up and find my own slice of happily ever after.
Thankfully, Mom throws her hands out in innocence. “I’ll get it.”
She disappears, her bare feet silent on the tile, and I eat another bite. My plan is to open-mouth chew like a cow if Mom does reappear with a possible suitor, maybe talk about how eager I am to have an entire litter of kids as soon as possible. That’s usually enough to run people off, even with the draw of my last name.
I perk my ears up when I don’t hear the shuffle of loafers or the squeak of tennis shoes, but rather the clacking of another pair of heels.
“Have a seat. Let me get you a plate,” Mom says as she comes back into the kitchen.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I don’t want to be a bother. Sorry for dropping in like this, I . . .” My Aunt Chrissy’s voice grates on my nerves in just the few short sentences before she stops when she sees me.
We’re not what you’d call a “close family.” She’s married to my Uncle Jed, and makes a job out of salon visits, Pilates sessions, and judging others. Of course, she always finds them lacking compared to her own self-ascribed amazingness.
Well trained by the years of my dad’s mayorship, I roll my eyes . . . on the inside, while maintaining a bland smile . . . on the outside. “Hey, Aunt Chrissy.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you had company, Pamela,” Chrissy tells Mom, ignoring me and my greeting.