Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 139088 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139088 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
After it was over, I’d wished I’d had more time with him in my pad. More memories of him there.
Right now, I was realizing that was crazy.
Just the two were enough.
More than enough.
Suddenly, the lyrics to “Me and Bobby McGee” came into my head, specifically, “I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday.”
And I felt those words down to my bones.
“Shit,” I said out loud.
I had it bad.
I knew that, deep down, but now, with all that was happening, I knew it.
Jacques wiggled in and snuffled my neck.
I needed to walk my dog then feed him.
Then go feed Knox.
I turned and cuddled Jacques.
He licked my jaw.
“I’m an idiot,” I told my dog.
He didn’t think so and communicated this by licking my jaw again.
This was what dogs were good at. Because even if you were an idiot, they made you feel like you weren’t.
But since I had no choice—I had two boys to take care of—me and my dog got out of bed to face the day.
As I hit the doorbell by Knox’s front door, I realized I should have demanded a key from him last night.
Or I shouldn’t have returned the key he’d given me after we broke up.
Ahem.
But what if he was upstairs, still asleep?
My shift was seven to four. It was super early.
When we were together, I’d learned he was an early riser, like me.
But…
The door opened.
“Yo,” he greeted and shift-hobbled out of my way.
He was in pajama bottoms and nothing else.
Good God, that chest, even partially bandaged.
Oh, heck yeah.
I was such an idiot.
I walked in and smelled garlic.
Since most of his bottom floor was open plan (the only things that weren’t were a powder room, obvs, and an office), I could see he had scrambled eggs in a skillet, a stack of buttered toast, the jelly out and waiting, and a plate covered with a paper towel on top of which was a small mound of cooked bacon.
Knox could eat, but he couldn’t eat all that.
I darted my gaze to him and accused, “You made breakfast.”
“I keep telling you, I’m not an invalid,” he replied, walk-hobbling to the kitchen. “Sit your ass down. It’s done and time to serve up.”
This meant he didn’t make himself breakfast.
He made us breakfast.
“I’m supposed to be looking after you, remember?” I snapped.
But still, Knox had made me scrambled eggs before. His eggs were almost always fresh due to his incomprehensible love of grocery shopping. He slow cooked them so they were fluffy and silky, not tough, and he added minced garlic and cheese. If he was feeling fancy, he sautéed mushrooms (alas, I did not buy him mushrooms last night).
So, obviously, I wandered to his kitchen and commandeered one of the two plates he had out.
“I can scramble some eggs and fry some bacon, Luna.”
He was the only double gunshot wound victim, four days post incident, who probably could.
But I wasn’t going to quibble, as evidenced by me scooping eggs onto a plate I already had three rashers of bacon on.
“Sit. I’ll do your plate too,” I ordered, and watched as he set aside his crutch and lowered himself to one of his steel I’m a Man with Taste! barstools with a slight grimace on his face.
He’d done too much, the big idiot.
And I’d given him shit about those barstools, because they looked good, but they weren’t comfy.
I bet he was rethinking his design choice now.
I did not give him shit this time.
“You need some aspirin or something?” I asked as I made his plate.
“I’m good. I’ll take something after I eat.”
“Okay,” I said, sliding his food in front of him, going direct to his cutlery drawer and getting us both knives and forks.
I handed him his, took my plate and sat down next to him.
I reached for the jelly.
He didn’t slather his toast with grape jelly because he didn’t eat it.
That jar of jelly was probably there from when I was there (unless Cheyenne ate jelly, which I found doubtful considering her size four ass).
I wondered if it was still good.
Since I had a cast iron stomach and an aversion to plain toast, I didn’t wonder long and dug into the jar.
“How did the sitting go with Dream?” he asked his plate.
Okay, yeah.
Okay, right.
We were friends.
Friends shared.
Friends cared.
We hadn’t been super-good friends before he got shot because I was wounded and pining, he was…whatever he was, he’d then got a girlfriend, I’d then faked a budding relationship with his bro…which led us to our recent past and him getting shot.
We had to figure out how to do this without me screaming, us fighting, or me flipping him the bird.
“The kids were great. She looked chill from her Reiki session. And she shared she’s working so hard because she’s saving to buy a house.”
He made a choking noise, so I turned to him.