Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“We’ll go and check there then.”
She offers a small wave that’s followed by her storming off towards the stage area. “No, Macy! It isn’t time for the dance off, yet!”
My date hits me with another wide mouth grin as our eyes connect. “The Wagners are basically Applecourt royalty. Everyone knows, loves, adores, and/or fears them.”
“Is that why you moved to Ann Arbor?”
“Not necessarily because of them,” he begins to explain at the same time he strolls back the way we came. “The beauty of a smalltown is the same shite that sucks about it. Everyone knows everyone’s shite, and I wanted to live a life where I could have a chick sleepover without worrying about the deputy knocking on my door the next morning because her Pastor father didn’t approve of his little angel singing in my bed instead of singing in the choir.”
The cringe that’s presented is instant.
“Plus, I like the opportunities in A2 better. Meeting new people.”
His head tips my direction receives a bashful beam.
“Going new places. Trying new things. Plus, it’s still close enough for fun shite like this or to pop home for random visits.”
I nod at the easy train of thought to follow.
“I like being close to my family. It’s literally everything to me.”
“I’ve never really had that.”
Our eyes connect once more.
“I mean, yeah, I was close with my grandparents. I loved spending time with them. Cooking. Fishing. Playing backgammon – or poker with Oreos if grandma wasn’t home.” Fondness over the memories is briefly flashed. “But that’s where it all ended. I’ve never been welcomed into anyone else’s family. Nat…tries…,but there’s a whole not a fan of outsiders’ thing to her Native side that she has to respect. Hell, they don’t even really welcome her father who has been married to her mother for like forty years. And when I was married to Daniel, well, family was just an afterthought. An afterthought that he didn’t think much about, might I add.”
“You’ll be welcomed with us, álainn.” He tightens his grip. “I swear it.”
Leaning into his hold as much as his words is effortlessly done.
I want that.
Maybe because I haven’t had that level of consanguinity in years?
Or maybe because I work in a field that reminds me daily of how important it is to have loved ones there for you. Some sort of support system for the hardest, scariest, most uncertain time in your life.
Oddly enough, I never pictured Daniel being that person for me despite being married.
That was probably a big red flag that our romantic relationship wasn’t going to last.
I’m glad it didn’t because this relationship is everything to me.
Our arrival to the “caddy ride” immediately has me covering my mouth to stop the laughter from escaping. The tractor driver dressed up as Elvis is expected; however, the back portion where people sit, being spray painted a white gold with pretend doors and headlight attachments isn’t.
“Come on, now,” says the employee dressed as Priscilla, monitoring the ride. “Last chance to join his tour!”
Tate joyfully tugs me along, and the nerves regarding meeting his parents kick into high gear once again.
What if they don’t like me?
What if they don’t like their precious baby boy dating a “cradle chaser”, a term I can’t believe Nat says people – not her – actually use.
What if I slip up and say something wrong or accidentally insult them or their upbringings?
Is it too late to back out?
Should I have done that before I teased my hair to the high heavens while my boyfriend kept helping himself to handfuls of my thong sporting ass?
Before I realize it, we’re next to the vehicle, and he’s chuckling, “Elvis.”
An older, slightly huskier gentleman sitting near the back of the vehicle turns his direction, instantly beaming at the sight of what has to be his son. “Elvis!”
Wow.
It’s like looking at the ghost of Christmas future dressed like a rock-n-roll superstar.
They’ve got the same green eyes.
Same sharp features.
Even the way they wear their facial scruff matches.
The only major difference would be the shades of their skin and even that isn’t the hugest contrast.
Tate’s father extends an open palm to help me climb up onto the hayride. “Priscilla.”
During my ascending, I greet back, “Elvis.”
He grins wider, reminding me so much of his son who hops on after me that it’s almost alarming. Tate settles on the hay seat next to me and ushers a hand to the man wearing a navy-blue suit, “Elvis aka Dad meet Priscilla aka Harper. Priscilla,” he gestures a hand my direction, “meet Elvis aka Ronan, my dad.”
“Such a pleasure to meet you,” I politely exclaim while over enthusiastically waving.
Why am I waving?
Is my arm broken?
Am I shooing away horseflies?!
“And such a pleasure to finally meet you,” he warmly replies, Irish accent thick. “My son has gone on and on for ages about how phenomenal you are. It’ll be nice to experience it for ourselves.”