Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 132951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
I hold out my hand. The rock is stupidly large. I should have left it at home.
Her eyes nearly bug out of her head. “Wow! That is huge! How many carats is it?”
“I actually have no idea.” It wasn’t a question I thought to ask while I was signing a contract for a quarter of a million a month.
“Dorothea thought you wouldn’t show up today,” she whispers.
I frown and tuck my purse in my drawer. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re marrying a professional hockey player, and his family are billionaires.”
“So I would stop being responsible and disappoint all the people who rely on me for programming?” I gather my books for the reading circle. I’m extremely thankful the mom-and-tots reading program starts in fifteen minutes. And that my favorite twins will be here to help, one of them grudgingly.
Odette frowns. “When you put it that way…”
“Nice to know how highly Dorothea thinks of me.” I smile as Everly lopes over to the checkout desk wearing her customary frown, her twin brother trailing behind her like a happy shadow. “You made it.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Everly mumbles. “Thanks for calling the group home.”
“You need community hours to graduate,” Victor reminds her. “And it was nice of Dred to offer this opportunity.”
Seems Victor has no idea why I’ve forced this torment on his sister.
Everly rolls her eyes. “Why can’t you just give me some of yours?”
Victor already has a hundred hours banked.
“Because then you wouldn’t have this amazing experience.” I pass her the plastic bin of juice boxes and healthy cookies. “Okay, let’s go read stories to kids who still poop their pants.”
Everly mutters something under her breath about punishments as she and Victor trail after me.
I love the mom-and-tots reading circle. Most of the group are young mothers who can’t afford the paid programs. I’ve made connections with a couple of nurses who make themselves available after the circle for moms with questions.
I put Everly and Victor in charge of handing out the snacks, so she’s obligated to speak directly to the young women and look at their adorable, whining children who range in age from six months to three years. Two of them are scream-crying, another one is trying to run away, and the six-month-old just blew out his diaper. As far as making a safe-sex point, I feel like I’m winning.
I take one of the crying babies so the mom can pump while I read—she’s leaking through her shirt—and make Everly turn the pages for me. Victor reads all the male parts and varies his voice. Halfway through, Everly takes over the female characters so I can change a diaper.
Everly and Victor help clean up once the moms and tots have left. When Victor excuses himself to the bathroom, I turn to Everly.
“I’m not going to tell you that you’re too young to have sex.” Even though she is. “But if you want to do adult things, then do them responsibly. Birth control and condoms, not one or the other, because a baby is a lifelong commitment.”
“It wasn’t for my parents,” she says sullenly.
I nod. “It wasn’t for mine either, but you can break the cycle by making the safe and healthy choice for you and your body.”
“I went to the free clinic last week,” she admits.
“Good. But you’re still joining me for mom-and-tots reading time until your community hours are finished.” Sometimes lessons need to be reinforced.
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
I pass her the remaining snacks and juice boxes. “Your payment in snacks.”
Everly and Victor head home, making it open season for my colleagues. I field more questions about my engagement, dodging personal questions about Connor.
At the end of the day, I take the subway home, grab my mail, and head up to my apartment, my heart lurching as I shuffle through the advertisements and find a new one from the property manager. I wait until I’m inside my apartment before I open it.
It’s an eviction notice. If I can’t backpay the hundred grand in rental adjustments I owe before the end of the month, I’m out of the apartment. That’s less than two weeks from now.
“Fuck.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose.
Connor said he would take care of it. But this new development is a wrench in the plan. Telling him about it means talking to him, and possibly seeing him. I’m still struggling to put that kiss we shared at the engagement party into a box with a lid that doesn’t pop off constantly.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, scaring the shit out of me.
I stuff the letter in my purse—I don’t know why, reflex maybe—and dig my phone out.
Obviously Connor has a sixth sense for when I’m thinking about him.
Connor
Meems is out of books.
Of course she is.
Dred
I’ll bring more by tomorrow. Just send me a list.