Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Alright, then. Neither gender is superior. And no, I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass.”
She blows out a breath. “How do you make even that sound hot? No, focus. Okay, so, are you just saying that because you still wanna get laid later?”
Perhaps.
Wait, no.
“No, that has nothing to do with it, though if I did have the opinion that the male gender was superior to the female gender, which I do not, I probably would find a better way to say it for… precisely that reason.”
“So you don’t think there’s a superior gender?”
“Of course not. We are, what’s the word… synchronistic. We’re complementary. You’re the yin to my yang and all that.”
“Aw, honey, I love it when you get all sentimental and romantic like that.”
“The bread to my butter, the pepperoni to my pizza…”
“God, stop, you’re making me hungry. And… seriously, the pepperoni to your pizza?”
“It’s a compliment, I promise. Pizza’s so lame and boring without pepperoni.”
“Allie would disagree.”
“You’re the sprinkles to my ice cream.”
“Let’s get you fed, pronto, before you tell me I’m the salt to your margarita.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“The butter to your lobster?”
“Now you’re talking, baby.”
“Ooh, the honey to your fries.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“Have you tried it?”
I shake my head with a grimace, and she gives me a look that says don’t knock it til you’ve tried it. But I have my limits.
I pull over at a tiny pizza shop, hidden from the main drag. “You might not know this,” I say, as I cut the engine, “but this place here is one of the Phantom Gourmet’s top ten hidden gems in all of New England.”
“No way! O.M.G. What do you get here?”
“Pizza. Seriously, you’ve never tasted better, unless you’re actually in Italy. Pretty sure they don’t even make anything but pizza. It’s what the best restaurants do, you know.”
“And what is that?”
“Choose one niche and do it well. When you make something the epicenter of your universe…” I reach a hand to her thigh, “the focus of your energy and attention… You get really good at doing it well.”
“You’re getting all frisky again.”
“When am I not frisky?”
She sticks her tongue out at me. She’ll end up over my lap for that, and if I know her, that’s exactly what she wants.
“Wait! Miguel, do they do like that woodburning stove thing?”
Such a cute little squirrel she is.
I put the car in park, then we get out.
“They so do. Imported tomatoes, homemade sauce, fresh herbs, and generous toppings.”
“Shut up, you’re making my mouth water.”
I give her a teasing smack to the ass. “I’m not gonna shut up, woman.”
“Miguel!”
I pinch the cheek that was left unsmacked.
“Don’t make me regret that right-by-the-guardrail bj,” she hisses.
“Fuck, baby, let’s get this to go.”
But when she opens the door and inhales the intoxicating, mouthwatering aroma? Neither one of us is going anywhere, anytime soon.
Half an hour later, she’s salivating over a slice of pepperoni pizza. “Legit the best damn pizza I’ve ever stuffed down this piehole.”
“That good, eh?”
“And I love that I’m the pepperoni to your pizza. Just don’t tell Allie that one.”
“Nope.”
She curves an eyebrow at me, and I know what’s coming before she speaks.
“Should children have to work for their allowances?”
“Absolutely. No one gets handouts as adults, why should children?”
“Indeed,” she says with a nod. “I should’ve picked something better than that.”
“I have one.”
“Go for it.”
“Cats are better pets than dogs.” She knows by now I’m not stating my opinion but opening another line of debate. I kinda love Prince.
She narrows her eyes at me, but it doesn’t stop her from taking another huge bite of pizza. She snaps the mozzarella string with gusto, though.
“Why? You’d better have a damn good list of reasons.”
“First, cats are domesticated enough to know where to do their business, instead of having to go outside and then making humans pick it up in those gross little bags.”
She shrugs. “It’s a fact of life. Unconvinced.”
I take another slice of pizza out of the box.
“Cats can be left alone for long spaces of time without being unsupervised and destructive.”
She sighs. “Miguel. It was one pair of slippers. You’ll never forgive him, will you? Forget about the fact that the soles of those things were literally hanging on by a mere thread.”
“Did you instruct him to destroy them or something?”
“Welllll,” she begins with a sheepish look, when the door to the little shop opens and she drops her pizza crust on her plate. Her voice lowers. “Don’t look now. But you would not believe who just stepped in here.”
I’m guessing either a celebrity, or Michelle Soto herself.
“When do I look?” I mouth.
She holds up three fingers, counting down, and when she makes a little fist at zero, she nods and whispers, “Now.”
I look up at the counter to see a woman—God, if you could call her that, she’s so damn young — dressed in a sleek black dress and three-inch spike heels sidling up to it. She’s so fucking young, she almost looks like she’s wearing her mama’s dress-up clothes. She’s too young to have had a child. Too young for prostitution. Way too young to be wrapped up in any of this. She’s the one Sam’s tracked down, the one whose multiple pictures she’s saved from her many social media accounts. Not sure what name she’s going by today, but we’ve found Michelle Soto.