Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
She had a point about him not being able to grasp my magical abilities, but she did have something wrong. “He’s not dull. He may be a lot of things, but he’s definitely not that.”
“If you say so,” she placated me.
I sighed deeply.
“Do I think you need to get laid?”
I nodded again, more vigorously that time.
“Yes, you do,” she answered herself. “And in that vein—”
“No,” I whined, and I wasn’t proud. The night before, in all that time, there had been no whimpering, but today, now, faced with my friend, there was.
“Yes,” she said loudly. “There’s a charming man, new in town, and he’s opening an adorable bakery and sandwich shop over in the Ulster building, the one right next to the bridge overlooking the river. You should see the outdoor seating area he’s got. It’s lovely, just like him,” she stressed.
“It won’t be lovely under four feet of snow,” I said snidely for no good reason other than being in a rancid mood.
She glared at me. “He added a delightful canopy for the winter, along with a fireplace and heaters. We should have lunch there.”
“Why?” I sounded petulant, but I was tired.
“Because it’s nice to have lunch out, you cretin.”
I grunted.
“Tomorrow?”
I lifted up the witch’s ladder in my hand.
“Fine, next week. We’ll—oh!”
“Don’t do that,” I snapped at her. “You always gasp in the middle of a sentence when you have an idea, and it’s terrifying for the rest of us because it sounds like you’re dying.”
“What?”
“Your six-year-old yelled at you when we were picking pumpkins at Reed’s Orchard because you did that.”
“Tobias is a very sensitive child.”
“He is not,” I groused at her. “Or yes, he is, but not how you’re implying he is. He’s empathetic to others, but you drive him nuts, especially when you call him Tobias.”
She hmphed.
“And gasp.”
“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about because you’ve done it all your life. You like us all to worry about you just for a moment. It’s really childish.”
“I’ve never done that in my life.”
I shook my head at her.
“What?”
“And your four-year-old glares at you. Did you know that? Have you noticed?”
“I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”
“And I know why you want me to come to Paris with you.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’ve worked that out.”
“Oh?” she asked haughtily.
“You need a babysitter you trust.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Where is JJ right now, by the way?”
“That very short person is at preschool, of course. Do you think I want my child going to kindergarten not knowing their colors or letters or how to spell simple words? Dear God in heaven.”
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I loved seeing Amanda mother her kids. Not only was she loving and doting, but she was also insistent on manners, as well as modeling kindness for them. More than anything, she was extremely protective, which made sense. As a rule, she had to know you, and well, before she trusted you with her children, and even then, she was watchful. Only me and Eddie, her husband, were trusted implicitly. His mother would have been on the list, but the last time Amanda let her youngest, Julia—who wanted to be called JJ—go with Eddie’s mother, the toddler had been returned with a dress on and bows in their hair. And sobbing. The sobbing was not to be missed or forgotten.
Amanda had a seizure. Immediately, she took JJ upstairs, got them changed into the shirt and pants they preferred, and took her child to the barber shop and got the haircut JJ wanted. To look like Toby was JJ’s chief desire, and Amanda made that happen.
“You know, JJ asked me for more Barbies yesterday, and they’re carrying a mini-Birkin at the moment, just like mine.”
I nodded.
“Perhaps JJ will be fluid,” she said.
“Whatever they are, you’re awesome. Eddie too.”
She smiled at the compliment and then leaned forward, elbow on the table, chin on her hand. “Declan—that’s the man’s name—has a booth at the festival to introduce the town to his food.”
I squinted at her.
“You can meet him then.”
“I really don’t—”
“I asked him what such a handsome man was doing moving to a small town when we had no clubs or bars to go out and get lucky at.”
I groaned loudly. “You did not.”
She scoffed. “Have you met me?”
“He’s probably horrified.”
“He finds me charming. I can tell. And he said he’s not much for the club scene, unlike his last boyfriend,” she enunciated for my benefit. “Just meet him. What can it hurt?”
I stared at her.
“He’s very pretty, tall, with all those sleek gym muscles, blue eyes, brown hair with highlights that are better than mine, and I think you’d make a beautiful couple.”
“Why? Because we’re both gay?”
“Just, could you be less you on Saturday when I bring him over to meet you?”
“I—”
“And maybe do something with your hair before then?”