Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Does it matter? They’ll leave too,” Harley answers, and I frown. He hasn’t taken Cherry’s absence that great. Hell, honestly, the fact that my kids miss her has probably made everything worse. I probably would have forgotten her by now if not for that. That’s a fucked-up thing to admit, but it is true.
“Mind your manners, Harley,” I growl. He gives me a look that I swear I’ve seen mirrored on Max’s face a million times … maybe even on my own face. “Toi, come over here please,” I order, shooting her a look. Until this moment, I didn’t realize that she was standing by the door and hadn’t followed me farther into the room.
“Toi?” my kids say in unison and I grin. Her gaze locks on mine, and her eyes flash with annoyance. It’s strange, but I seem to read her thoughts clear as day. Girl would be useless in a poker game.
“She’s going to take care of you when you get home from school and make sure your homework and things are done,” I announce and watch Toi’s eyes go round in surprise and not a small amount of irritation.
“How long will she last?” Harley mutters, looking Toi over. Toi’s back goes straight.
“As long as I want her to.” I shrug and the fire that flashes in Toi’s eyes can’t be mistaken at this point and for some reason my smile stretches across my face, working muscles that haven’t been used in years. I even fight the urge to laugh.
7
Toi
He can’t seriously want me to be a nanny to his kids? Can he? He doesn’t even know me! How can he trust his kids with a complete stranger? One look at the smile on his face and I know he means it. I want to scream at him. How does he expect me to get his kids to respond to me? I can’t talk to them. I suddenly have the urge to cry in frustration, but I resist—barely.
“What’s wrong with her?” his little boy asks, and God help me, he sounds just as surly and grumpy as his dad.
“Is she broken?” the little girl asks, walking to me and reaching for my hand. I fight the urge to pull it away. She’s sweet, but I feel like I’m on display and that’s never a feeling I’ve been comfortable with. If she only knew how broken I am. Then again, no child should ever know that feeling. I watch as her small hand encompasses mine.
“There’s nothing wrong with her.” Marcum exhales loudly, rubbing the side of his neck with his hand. For a minute my eyes get lost staring at that hand. It’s covered in ink, and I mean there’s not a speck of skin on his hand that isn’t marked in some fashion, and he has on these rings…skulls and insignias, large and heavy silver. I’ve never been around a man who wears rings, unless it’s my boss at the diner. Then again, all he wears is a wedding ring—nothing like this. Marcum’s hands should make you afraid. They’re so big, it’s not a stretch of the imagination to think he could physically rip someone’s head off … or at least choke the life out of them.
Of course he’s probably done that.
“Toi? Are you listening?” Marcum’s voice growls, interrupting my thoughts. I breathe heavily to indicate my frustration. Marcum either ignores the sound or doesn’t care. I’m betting on it being the latter.
When I look at him he’s holding out a notebook and a pencil. I frown.
What? I mouth, not bothering to say the word. I add in a motion with my hands that indicates a question and just because his kids are here I don’t flip him off—which is what I really want to do.
This time it is Marcum who breathes out his irritation, and his is much more effective.
“I was telling my kids that you had an accident and have trouble speaking so you’ll communicate like this,” he grumbles, waving the notebook and pencil.
I take it from him, but I do it not understanding. His kids are young—probably too young for an old coot like him to have. Can they even read? Does he really think this can work? I stare down at the notebook, unsure of what to do.
“Tell my kids hi,” he huffs, clearly at the end of his patience. I don’t think Marcum has much patience.
It takes me a minute to get the notebook open, but I write on it and hold it out.
Hi.
“I’m Desi! And this is my brother, Harley!” the little girl says, her voice high-pitched and excited.
I blink. I’ve never been around kids. She’s beautiful and her energy is infectious, but I feel way out of my depth.
“Is she stupid?” Harley asks and hand to God, his voice in that moment sounds just like Marcum.