Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Chloe! This is Tate!”
Harper thrusts her toward me, and before I know it, I’m shaking her hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, sounding nervous. “I’m Chloe, the chef.”
“THE CHEF!” She squeezes my hand tighter so there’s no chance of me getting out of this overzealous handshake. “We met on the phone, remember? You’re freaking gorgeous! Oh, this is just so hilarious. My brother thought he’d hide that fact from me? Nice try.” She keeps her hand on mine and turns me to face her brother. “She’s gorgeous, Luke. And don’t bother denying it. I have EYES.”
“No, it’s okay, Aunt Tate. My dad told me just yesterday he thinks Chloe is ‘be-yuuu-teee-ful’!”
Luke acts like he’s not happy about this turn of events, but it’s just that, an act. He’s clearly pleased about Tate’s arrival. Even now he’s fighting back his smile.
Still holding my hand, Tate turns to face me again. “Oh, hello, duh. Let me formally introduce myself. I’m Luke’s charming, funny, cooler younger sister. You can call me Tate.”
“What else would she call you? That’s your name.”
She ignores her big brother and edges in closer. “You know my mom called me about you. We were just talking, actually.”
Luke sighs and shakes his head. “That’s really good, sis. You’re doing a good job of playing it cool.”
Tate rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’ll settle down. It’s just been a helluva drive from the city. Traffic was a bi—”
“Tate.”
“A witch!” she amends, for Harper’s sake. “And I could use something to drink.”
“It’s barely 9:00 AM,” Luke chides.
“So?”
I laugh. “There’s some red wine. We opened it last night, but I think there should still be at least a glass’ worth left in there.”
This piques her interest. “A little vino for two, huh? Romantic evening in?”
She looks between us like a shrewd detective, and though I tell myself explicitly not to, I can’t help but peer over toward the dining table—the scene of the crime, if you will—and I just know my face says it all. I’ve incriminated myself.
“Nothing like that,” I rush, my voice high-pitched and telling. “Last night was just a chill night. Super chill.”
I sound like I’m seventy years old trying out slang for the first time. Our night? Yeah, it was hippity-dippity.
“Riiight.” She smiles a knowing little smile and I think she’s going to press for more, but instead, she points to the blender. “As much as I would kill for that leftover wine, I think I might be better off starting with that. Is there enough to share?”
I pour us each a smoothie, knowing how much Luke appreciates when I make these in the morning. I tuck in all sorts of fruits and vegetables, and Harper’s none the wiser because it ends up tasting mostly like banana and almond milk.
Tate’s eyes widen on her first sip. “Oh god, this is good.” She holds the cup up to inspect it. “Why is this good? It shouldn’t be. It’s the color of celery, and I hate celery.”
“You shouldn’t say hate. That’s a very strong word,” Harper declares. “You should hate bad guys and bullies. Not celery.”
“When did you become so wise?” Then she turns to me, and I smile.
“The smoothie has a lot of good stuff jam-packed into it, but no celery, so you’re in the clear.”
We’re all quiet for a moment as we drink it down. Then slowly, one by one, we take note of Harper fidgeting in place, her eyes jumping back and forth between the kitchen and the front foyer.
“I was just wondering…I heard that you brought presents…”
Tate gets it right away. “Yes! Those are yours! Bring them in here and you can open them.”
Wasting no time, Harper dashes into the foyer, but then not long after, it sounds like every single present she was trying to carry crashes to the ground. Then Harper’s faint voice follows. “Uhh…guys?”
“Coming!” Tate sets down her smoothie and hurries to help her niece.
Awareness trickles down my spine. Being alone with Luke feels perilous. He turns to meet my gaze over the kitchen island.
“Morning,” he says, unfurling a private smile that makes my toes curl.
“Morning.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Oh…can’t complain. You?”
He stayed in my room last night while I got cleaned up. I brushed my teeth as he sat on the edge of my bed watching me, an indeterminable expression on his face. It was like my very existence completely puzzled him. Then he stayed with me while I slipped my legs under the blankets and laid down. I wanted him to take the spot beside me. The bed is plenty big enough for two, but I knew he’d want to be downstairs with Harper in case she woke up in the middle of the night and went looking for him.
He picked up a framed picture off my nightstand and asked me about it. It was a photo of my family I brought with me from New York at the start of summer.