Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
And even though he was right…
We had all the time in the world to pack it in…
We took some of that time to enjoy round three.
THIRTY-SIX
The Stud and The Cheerleader
Mabel
The next morning, I stood in the cold and snow, under the shelter of the truck port, wearing Hutch’s flannel pajama pants, the drawstring tied tight, the waistband rolled several times, a shelf-bra cami under his big, chunky oatmeal sweater, my feet in thick wool socks shoved in my pink Uggs.
I had my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that was quickly cooling, my hair was a sexhead, bedhead, lovefest mess, and I was watching five puppies poo and pee and play in the snow.
Before we’d come out, I’d dashed off texts to Abigail and Lillian, and received replies from Abigail (her fever had broken in the night, thank God) and Harry (Lillian was still in the throes of it, but she was being tended to not only by Harry, but also Ronetta, their next door neighbor and Lillian’s second mom, who’d taken over homemade chicken broth, and Harry didn’t say this, but my guess was she also took love, and that healed a lot).
Once the puppies had their business sorted, I started scooping them up.
As I took the first one (Remo) through the kitchen, Hutch, in another pair of his pajama pants, a thermal (that molded to his shoulders and lats like a loving hand, it was yummy), and wool socks, who was cooking at the stove, looked over his shoulder at me.
“They done?” he asked.
I set my coffee cup down still heading to the romper room. “Yeah.”
“Need help?” he asked.
“Need breakfast more,” I called from the living room.
I heard his soft laughter.
The dude knew I liked my food.
I got the last four in taking only two trips, went to his bedroom to switch the big sweater out to a lighter cardie (seriously, the kitchen was always warm and cozy) and take off my boots (but left the socks on), and by the time I returned to the kitchen, Hutch was putting our filled plates on the table.
Perfect timing.
He’d also warmed up my coffee.
Because, obviously, he was the best.
I sat at my plate, put my heel to the seat of the chair, knee tucked to my chest, and picked up my fork.
“This looks amazing,” I said.
And it did.
Cheesy eggs. Turkey sausage. And whole wheat bread toasted to perfection and buttered.
Better, he was my guy.
I was his girl.
We were in jammies in his log cabin, snow all around.
And the world was just right for the first time ever.
“My name is Ranger Emmett Hutchison,” he stated.
At learning this delicious fact, I had a smile on my face when I turned it to him.
It faded when I saw the look on his.
“No one calls me Ranger but my mom and my aunt,” he went on.
His mom.
My heart started beating fast.
And hard.
“Her name was Lisa Michelle Hutchison.”
Oh God.
This was always how he started his tales of woe when it came to females.
“And my dad’s name was Jonathan Walter Hutchison.”
This addition did not bode well.
“Okay,” I said gently.
The intent look in his eyes was scaring me.
“You have to know this, Mabel. This formed me.”
No less scaring me.
“I should have told you before,” he said. “But now,”—he waved his fork between us—“this is real. You need to know.”
“I’m right here and not going anywhere, honey. So if you want to tell it, tell it to me.”
“She was the best mom ever.”
That wasn’t what I was expecting.
He sat back in his chair. “She cut eyeholes in one of her scarves. She’d wrap it around her eyes so she could be the villain. Tie a towel around my shoulders so I could play the superhero. And I’d catch her being a bad guy and save the day.”
“That’s sweet,” I said very quietly, because I had a strange feeling it wasn’t.
“She got down on the floor and helped me build shit with Lego. She zoomed my race cars with me throughout the house, laughing and shouting and cheering. And she’d walk right into my class at school, announce grandly, ‘Ranger has somewhere to be,’ take my hand, and we’d go get ice cream. Go buy candy. Go home and make a mess while we made cookies. Go to the toy section of the store and she’d say,”—he suddenly threw his long arms wide, making me jump—“‘Take your pick, my boy, and it’s all yours.’”
I abandoned my food, grabbed my mug, and sipped coffee as I listened.
“Then I got older,” he said. “And I realized it might be weird for your mom to take you out of school just to get ice cream or make cookies.”
Here it was.
“And then I got even older, and I heard Dad discussing…he was always discussing. Not fighting. Not shouting. He did everything he could not to trip her trigger to pull some shit. But I heard him discussing how she had to stop doing that. ‘He’s hardly going to fall behind missing one afternoon, John,’ she said, even though it wasn’t just one afternoon. Then he told her, if she absolutely had to do that, then she had to go to the office and tell them she was taking me. Not swan through the halls and just grab me from class.”