Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
She sidesteps around us, leaning over a steaming pot of soup, grabs a tasting spoon and dunks it in, then blows and slurps it between her lips just the way Mom does.
“Who was the last person to season this soup?” She screws up her face, turning to look over her shoulder. “Too much fucking salt! If anyone touches this again, you are not only fired, I’m coming for you. Don’t touch my fucking soup! Everyone hear me?”
She wields the spoon in a half-circle like a bloodied sword.
Sophia curses better than either of us, and truth, even at five foot nothing and maybe a buck-five, she’s one of the few people in the world that scare me.
There’s a chorus of “Yes, Chef” from around the kitchen, but no one stops working. It’s heads and eyes down, lest they draw more wrath from the raven-haired pixie with the Gordon Ramsay temper.
“Fucking idiots.” She blows out a long breath, then gives me a wink on a crooked grin. “If one of us doesn’t get married soon, Grandma said she’s going to die of a broken heart.”
“Jesus.” Cyrus shakes his head, raising his eyebrows. “I thought Mom was bad. She said if she has to go one more Christmas without grandchildren, she’s a failure as a mother. Why can’t any of my children settle down? God is punishing me, I know it.” He mimics Mom’s thick Italian accent.
I stretch out my left arm with a wince, gritting my teeth when the burning stab of pain shoots through the muscle of my shoulder, a reminder that ex-husbands don’t like losing either.
“Still hurts like a motherfucker, huh?” Cyrus watches me as I flex my arm then settle it back at my side. “No progress on the fire either?”
“Nope. Insurance still investigating. I’m pretty fucking sure it wasn’t some electrical malfunction.”
He shakes his head. “Thank fuck for good sprinkler systems.”
“Yeah. That’s just stuff, this…” I point to my arm. “Some things you can’t just rebuild or re-buy.”
Luckily Cyrus was with me that day, otherwise the knife probably would have ended up in my aorta. We were on the elevator on our way to the gym on the first floor of my building, when two-hundred and eighty pounds of angry ex-husband launched through the opening door with a hunting knife.
I landed a hard left hook to the side of his head before security barreled in and fucked it all up, preventing me from killing the asshole. They couldn’t even hang onto him. Ended up trading my workout time for a police report and ten stitches for my trouble.
Fucker wore a mask, too, so even with the security footage, we couldn’t ID him. I doubt he’ll come at me again. It’s not the first time a spouse on the other side of one of my cases has taken their best shot, and it won’t be the last. Divorce is fucking dirty.
I’m not so sure marriage is any better. Not from what I’ve seen, at least. Thank God I’ll never know for sure because I’ve taken my own vows.
I’ve vowed to never put a ring on anyone else’s finger or let one be put on mine.
“Well, you know what Mom always says.” Sophia gives me a sisterly stare. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“That hasn’t always been my experience,” I counter, sliding my hand over my mouth and squeezing the hard bone in my jaw.
“Whatever, big brother.” She looks at the huge clock on the wall, then points her spoon my way. “Don’t be late. Being late for a blind date is tacky.”
“Go get ‘em, tiger.” Cyrus gives my sore shoulder a half-hearted punch.
I cock back, but a throwdown in the middle of the kitchen isn’t on my agenda. Besides, I know he’s got his own shit going on, and it’s okay to distract yourself fucking with your brother’s problems that might seem bigger than your own.
He’s up to his balls in gambling troubles, and not the kind you might think. Cyrus doesn’t lose, but he doesn’t make a lot of friends either.
“You both are next.” I point at my brother and sister. “I mean it. Why do I have to take one for the team?”
“You’re the oldest,” they say in unison, then nod and give each other a self-satisfied fist bump.
“Your time is coming. Both of you.”
I smooth my hands down the front of my white shirt, button my black suit coat, and second guess not wearing a tie.
It’s dinner, asshole, not a deposition.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my phone. Tapping the screen, I find 16 new voicemails and 10 new text messages since I came into the restaurant fifteen minutes ago. My clients are nothing if not needy. Charging by the five-minute increment helps.
I pull up my notes app and refresh my memory on the bullet points from my grandmother about tonight.