Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Tate chuckles during a casual headshake. “I’m not going to answer that question.”
“And why not?”
“Because I’d like us to keep dating and that answer may change the course our future, sugar.” The in-character lip sneer given again at the end of his declaration gets me snickering at his expense.
God, he does that shit with so much ease.
I honestly cannot remember a time when I laughed this much.
I mean I’m not like a robot incapable of laughing until my programmer understands how humor works. It’s just that I work in a pretty serious field, deal with pretty serious issues, and outside of Nat and Daniel – once you crack the David Bowie code –, most people I converse with are…well…for lack of a better word…serious.
Tate, however, is quite the opposite of everyone else I’m constantly surrounded by.
He lives to laugh.
And smile.
And make others smile.
And sow bits of joy like he’s fucking Johnny Appleseed.
The instant the two of us step inside the decorated building, my jaw hits the floor. While I was expecting some festive décor, this well surpasses anything I could’ve envisioned. To the left side, there’s a stage set up with musicians playing tunes, dressed in retro wear, and on the opposite, is a food section stacked with sandwiches, wedding cake, and a full bar. In the middle, there are not only places to sit but places to dance with or without a partner. Red and black is the color scheme with neon signs to brighten the place up. Everyone – and I do mean everyone – is in some sort of outfit related to the time period if not the man himself.
This is some weird shit.
I don’t know if I should be excited or terrified.
Both?
Maybe both?
Tate stops us in front of a short, wavy-haired redheaded woman not too far from the doorway we walked through. His smile stretches from ear to ear as he untangles himself to kindly greet her. “Cora.”
The woman in the hot pink, long sleeve dress that resembles the one Priscilla wore in a photo with their baby – the photo that’s framed on the wall right next to her – joyfully exclaims, “Tate!” Their arms wrap around each other for a warm hug. “Was wondering where you were! You know your parents have been here since the ass crack of dawn just judging every little inaccurate detail they crossed.”
He pulls away on a chortle.
“Thought Carl was gonna try to have them detained before the damn thing even started.” Her grin grows mischievous. “He threatened, and I threatened to make him wear more than just fucking sideburns to this.”
I join in on the snickering, officially stopping when he begins formal introductions. “Priscilla aka Cora Wagner, this is Priscilla aka Harper Addison, my girlfriend.” He shoots me a teasing wink. “Have to be clever about being in character even when not trying to be in character. You never know who will jump up your arse about cocking it up.”
“Your Elvis worshipping parents that’s who,” Cora teasingly points out prior to extending her hand my direction. “Nice to meet you, by the way.”
“You too.” Once our hands fall, I ask, “Wagner…any relation to Nix Wagner by chance?”
“Why?” Her pale hands fall to her hips in suspicion. “Does he owe you money?”
“No…”
“Did he lose a bet he never came through on?”
“No…”
“Did he come into your kitchen, eat all your beef stroganoff leftovers, drink the last of your fresh-spiked bourbon apple cider and then pretend the shit never happened as he’s cleaning the sauce stain out of his recently dry-cleaned shirt?”
“Definitely not.” Rather than wait for more or weirder accusations, I announce, “He was my realtor.”
“Do you hate your house?”
“Cripes, no. I loveeee my house.”
“I love her house, too,” Tate adds as he slides his arm around my lower back. “I’ll love it even more when I officially move in.”
He has to use the word “officially” because he practically already lives there. More and more of his clothes keep appearing to the point I gave him another drawer and closet space. He’s got a toothbrush – necessary for how many times he sleeps over –, but I’ve also been buying him bodywash he likes, shampoo, deodorant, and even his preferred blend of coffee for the morning, which he tends to take Irish.
Yeah.
That’s really a thing.
She shoots him an intrigued smirk before smiling cordially at me. “If you’re happy with him and his services, he’s definitely my son. If you’re not, he’s Carl’s.” Her pointed finger flicks to the other set of doors where a man in a Sheriff’s uniform is scrutinizing the scene. “I only take credit for the good parts of him.”
“Like a mother should,” Tate lightly laughs, encouraging us both to do the same. “Speaking of mothers, any idea where mine may have gotten off to?”
“Last I heard, she was ready to go for a caddy ride.”