Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“Row…” Mom put a hand on my shoulder, and that was when I realized I was cradling Cal’s head in my hands like she was dying in my arms. Her forehead probably needed stitches. There was a shit ton of blood. “She got hurt, she isn’t dying.”
“Are you a doctor?” I bit out.
Mom blinked, surprised by my harsh tone. “Well, no…”
“Then spare me your medical assessments.” I twisted my head toward Rhyland. “Take Mom downstairs and call a doctor.”
“I can just drive her to urgent care.” Rhy ran his knuckles over his stubble. Right. Like I’d put her in the same car with a man who wasn’t me.
“No. Call a doctor. I don’t want her sitting around in a clinic the entire night.” After realizing how it sounded, I added, “She still needs to finish her shift.”
“Ambrose Rhett Casablancas,” Mom gasped. “You force this poor girl to work tonight, and you’ll be needing stitches too after I’m done with you.”
Cal cackled. “I could marry you right now, Mrs. Casablancas!”
“Thank you, sweetie. The constitution of marriage disappointed me once. Not interested in trying again.” That was the most she’d said about her marriage to my father in thirty years.
“Come on, Zeta, follow me. Row stocked up on the rosé you like.” Rhyland approached Mom, resting a casual hand on her arm. She flinched at his touch, scooting away. I had to work my jaw back and forth to avoid cursing.
Rhy faltered, his face pinking. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mom mustered a weak giggle, rising up and sliding her purse over her shoulder. “Got an electric shock, that is all. Calla, you feel all better soon, okay, cucciolotta?” She tapped Cal’s arm.
“Doubtful, with your son around.” Cal grinned.
Mom let out a laugh, reaching to tuck a lock of hair behind Cal’s ear. “I see you are handling him just fine.”
I swatted Mom’s hand away. “She’s injured. You could hurt her.”
Mamma ruffled my hair. “You’re my favorite son.”
“I’m your only son.”
“Same difference.”
Cal blinked at me as the door clicked shut behind them. “What’s cucciolotta? She’s been calling me that for years.”
“Little puppy.”
“She picked up on my Golden Retriever energy.” A smile teased her mouth.
“Don’t smile. Any movement you make might reopen the wound,” I chided her.
She sighed. “Can you please stop treating me like I’ve been run over by a semitrailer?”
“Now that’s an image for my spank bank.” I tucked her flyaways behind her ear softly. “Can I take a look?”
She flinched. “Will you be gentle?”
“When have I not been?” I growled.
Her eyebrows shot to her hairline in response. “That time you threw me and Dylan into the pool when we were in fourth grade and I accidentally bumped my head. And in grade nine when you stepped on my toe and broke it when I asked you to teach me how to slow dance before prom. Oh! And there was also that ti—”
“It was a rhetorical question. Yes, I’ll be gentle.” I scowled. At least now I knew it wasn’t a concussion. I slowly peeled the damp napkins from her forehead, holding my breath. “How did you manage to hurt yourself?”
“You know, easily, as per usual.” She focused on a point on the ceiling to brave the burn that came from the dry blood gluing her skin and the cloth together. “I was running to get one of the patrons the wine menu—”
“You were running?” I snarled.
She gave me a pointed look. “I thought you encouraged me to run.”
“In open spaces. Away from sharp objects. With a fucking helmet, preferably.”
Way to charm her pants off, Casablancas, Rhyland’s voice chortled in my head. I’m sure she’s seconds away from printing out your wedding invitations.
“It’s not even how I fell, okay?” She tapered her eyes. “I was trying to show Katie I can do a straddle split.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or bash my own head against the wall. Fuck. Why was she so unapologetically, wonderfully herself?
“What made you think you could do a straddle split?”
“The fact that I was an athlete in high school and that I’m awesome?” She blinked at me seriously. “I’m extremely flexible.”
“Would love to test that theory.”
I shed the napkins from her forehead, dumping them on the floor. The cut stared right back at me. It didn’t seem too deep, but there was a small chunk of skin missing, and I knew it would leave a scar.
“How do I look?” She gulped. Her head was still nestled in my arm.
“Beautiful,” I admitted dispassionately. I was an asshole, not a liar.
“I meant the wound.” She chewed on the edge of her thumb. “Is it hideous? Ghastly? Frightening?”
“It’s small. Crescent shaped.” I licked the pad of my thumb and rubbed away some dry blood around it to take a better look. Don’t say it. Don’t. “And it’s perfect because it’s on you.”