Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
He and I had similar tastes in a lot of things, including the comfort of a home, so I’d given him free rein. My only stipulation was that I could pump the brakes if I noticed he was overwhelming himself too much.
Emphasis on too much. I was learning to let go of the smaller things. Like the other day, when I came home to find him muttering to himself while staring at the wall in the dining room.
“Do I want wooden frames covering the wall, or do I want to go minimalistic with a single painting? No, we should go with the frames—Kellan ordered hundreds of prints. They can’t go to waste. On the other hand… Oh, for chrissakes, I’m giving myself a headache.”
I opened the door and stepped in carefully. The living room was quiet, and I couldn’t see anyone nearby. I knew today was the decorator’s last day. Shan had gotten his old-school British library design in the living room. He’d gone through countless catalogues and pointed at things he wanted.
To be honest, it was fucking perfect, from the built-in bookshelves that were already filled with books to Shan’s whiskey collection that took up a corner near the patio doors. From the plush rugs covering the hardwood floors to the big leather recliner we both fit into. From the cushy couches we’d already fallen asleep on to the big flat-screen. Hell, I was even on board with the pillows and blankets and the knickknacks. One of my favorites being the leatherbound album of drawings from former patients of Shan’s. Kids had loved their Dr. Shan.
“Shan?” I called. He couldn’t be in the kitchen; neither of us cared about that area. We’d told the decorator to do whatever she wanted, as long as we got a good space for a coffee machine. I didn’t think he was in the dining room either… I peered in, and nope, he wasn’t there.
This room was growing on him, though. Me too, actually. It was in here his list had expanded.
“I want intimate family dinners. I want the spare bedroom to be a place for my grandchildren to sleep—for the twins too when they visit. Because if we think about it, we will watch the next generation of Sons grow up here. I want us to be involved in their journey.”
He was starting to consider CJ as his grandson, which was only mildly disturbing. My nephew, his grandson? I shook my head and grinned to myself.
I kinda loved it. He was charming as fuck when he went all in on being Grandpa O’Shea to every kid in the syndicate.
He was finding his way again.
How could I not love that?
Eventually, I found him on the patio that hugged the corner of our living room. The spotlights in the hot tub weren’t on, and he hadn’t switched on the bistro lights either, so it was hard to see him at first.
Was he all right? He’d forgone the little dining area and opted to sit in the remotest corner in the dark. We weren’t keeping that plastic lawn chair. It’d been here when we moved in.
“You okay, hon?” I asked. Fuck me, he was something extra tonight. Sweats, a beater that hugged his torso, and a glass of whiskey hanging limply from his hand. Despite it all, he was probably in the best shape of his life. At least in my eyes. And I wanted my man to be strong and healthy—and with a few extra pounds because great food was meant to be eaten.
He opened his eyes and smiled lazily. “You’re home.”
I tested a smile too. Could I relax or was something wrong? Even in the darkness, I could see the redness lingering in his eyes. He’d been upset not too long ago.
I didn’t wanna dive straight into playing nurse. He didn’t like that. So I squatted down between his knees, and I went with something easier at first.
“I see you started our sweatpants evening without me.” I planted my hands on his thighs and rubbed him affectionately.
He chuckled under his breath. “I had to take a shower after I stocked the kitchen and finished hanging up our clothes in the bedroom.”
He and I were the same when it came to clothes. We didn’t want a professional to touch our fancy threads.
“I still don’t see why we gotta have a fully stocked kitchen,” I replied with a smirk. “You know as well as I do that we’ll call a caterer or a restaurant when we have people over, and we eat out every day—unless we have food delivered.”
Neither of us was what one might call “good in the kitchen,” with only a few exceptions. Shan was bizarrely amazing at scrambling eggs, I cooked the best bacon in the world, and we were both stellar at making biscuits from a box.