Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“Bacon, eggs, hash browns, toast, and pancakes,” he answers, his voice the definition of annoyed.
I smile. “Whatever you want.”
Summer clamors in her stroller seat, and Bennett walks around in front of her to get down on her level. “You sure you want to go to breakfast with Uncle Clay, Summblebee?”
“Clayyy!” she says excitedly, clapping her little hands, and my smile grows by a mile.
I point right at her. “That’s my girl.”
“Why don’t you stick to one woman at a time?” Ben teases with a smirk over his shoulder.
“There’s always room for a Summer in a relationship,” I hedge back. Summer laughs and smiles at me, and I make a funny face and wave.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing my keys off the counter and rounding the bar to go over to them. “I’ll drive.”
Bennett rolls his eyes. “You’d better since this is your mission anyway.”
We head outside and get Summer secured in the middle of the bench seat—compared to two years ago, it’s amazing how much better we are at taking care of her now—and then climb in our respective sides. The town is still sleepy as we drive out of it, and I rest an arm around the back of the bench seat, the corners of my lips curving up.
It’s not long before we’re out of Red Bridge city limits, and Summer is sleeping softly between us. Ben reaches out to fiddle with the radio, not stopping until he settles on a station that’s playing classical music. It’s his go-to when it comes to painting in his studio and helping his little girl fall asleep.
“So, you’re really gone for this one, huh?” Bennett asks, stretching out in his seat too, but focusing the bulk of his body toward the window.
“Might as well be in space, bro. She’s the real deal. Everything is better when I’m with her. Hell, I don’t even feel a hint of the stink of our old life on me anymore.”
“Damn,” he comments, glancing over at me for a long moment. “Never thought I’d see the day that Clay Harris would actually want to get married. Or, fuck, find himself loving the idea of committing himself to one woman at all.”
“When you find the right woman, shit changes.” I shrug. “And who knows, maybe one day, I’ll be sitting in the passenger seat while you’re driving us to go ring shopping.”
“Good one.” He snorts. “I don’t think I’ll ever fuck with a woman again.”
“Oh, Ben. That’s not… You gotta fuck women,” I tease. “The alternative just doesn’t work for us.”
He rolls his eyes, but he chuckles too. “I didn’t say I’m not going to fuck them. I’m just not going to fuck with them.”
“In my experience, the two of them kind of go together.”
Bennett shrugs, unfazed. He’s been burned by so much and fallen down so many slippery slopes in his life, I imagine the thought of chancing any of that now that Summer is around is crippling. She needs stability and someone who’s reliable. Bennett is that man now, and I like to think I am too. But we didn’t used to be.
When you think of breaking generational cycles, wealthy families don’t necessarily come to mind. But bad people are everywhere, in every station of life. Our families—and Josie’s family, for that matter—are proof of that.
“You have any idea what kind of ring you’re looking for?” Ben asks, and my answer is instant.
“Something that reminds me of a water tower.”
“Excuse me?” He nearly chokes on his tongue, and I laugh.
“If anyone should understand that sometimes ideas are more metaphorical and abstract than black-and-white concrete, it’s you, Mr. Artiste.”
“I don’t paint anymore,” Ben admits, and it doesn’t take a genius to understand why. Being a single father to a special needs child is no easy feat, but I also think some of it stems from giving his family and the rich people within the art world a giant fuck-you.
Doesn’t matter, though. Ben’s an artist—a painter, to be exact—to his core. I don’t know a lot about art, but I know he has more talent in the tips of his fingers than everyone I’ve ever met combined. And a lot of his most famous paintings come in the form of abstract. Hell, when he was, like, eighteen or nineteen, I’m pretty sure one of his abstract pieces sold for millions.
One day, I’m sure, he’ll be back to painting. It’s in his blood. It’s a part of his fucking soul. He can’t avoid that forever. But the day that I got him out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn isn’t the day I push that conversation on him.
“Just trust me,” I add, changing the topic back to the task at hand. “I’ll know the perfect ring when I see it.”
“Don’t get off at the first exit,” Ben suggests. “Go to the second. It’s easier.”