Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Though, I can’t respond. Not yet. Not right now.
“I think they’ve got it under control,” Peeler says, nodding toward the fire truck. There’s currently no smoke pushing through the roof or flames licking the sky, but the firefighters who jogged into the diner have yet to come back out. “Probably nothing more than a whole lot of song and dance for an ancient oven that should’ve been condemned twenty years ago.”
After a quick pat to my back, Sheriff Peeler ambles over toward The Diner, his posture relaxed and his strides slow and easy. It’s the opposite of my tense body and legs that still feel like they want to bolt.
A few pounding heartbeats later, the sirens cut off, the sudden silence ringing louder than the noise ever did, and the firefighters who went into The Diner are walking back to their truck.
Instant relief is a whip to my nerves.
Thank fuck.
Eventually, I force my hands to unclench, refocus on the screen of my phone, and thumb out a reply to Breezy.
Me: And what time are you wanting this dinner, Bossy?
Breezy: I’d prefer 7 p.m. Unless you think Randy will still be hanging around?
Me: And what about Bennett and Norah? Won’t they notice you leaving the house so early?
Breezy: They took Autumn to Miami with them for the night. Bennett had a gallery showing.
Me: 7 p.m., it is then. Guess it’s a good thing I cook better than I farm.
Breezy: Are you sure about that, Farm Daddy?
Farm Daddy. Fuck me. It’s the nickname she refuses to give up on.
Me: I think I’m going to start tallying every time you call me that. You know, for future punishment’s sake.
Breezy: Uh-oh. You gonna spank me?
Me: I guess that depends on how much you keep using that fucking nickname.
She texts back with the same two words—Farm Daddy—repeated at least twenty times.
And just like that, I’m laughing. No longer tense. No longer internally battling the ghosts of my past.
…
The rest of the day felt stressful as fuck; Randy bitched for most of it because of our feed shortage and the subsequent price-gouging Mr. Donnelly did with the grain. Though, I hardly think an extra $3.75 should be considered predatory.
Thankfully, Randy called it a day by three, and after I made sure my pregnant sheep Mabel was comfortable in the barn and the rest of our flock was keeping a low profile, I spent the rest of the late afternoon and evening preparing a home-cooked meal for Breezy.
A meal we devoured.
A meal Breezy might’ve wanted seconds of, but I was too determined to eat my dessert—aka her pussy—in my bed to accommodate that request.
It’s now a little after eleven. Breezy and I are curled up on my bed, under the fleece comforter, and the house feels cozy and calm as soft silence wraps around us like another quilt.
She is stretched out naked beside me, and her skin is warm against mine. The sheets are a mess from what we just did, and the air still hums with the electricity of it.
Her sigh is a cute, dreamy little thing as she traces lazy circles on my bare stomach with her fingertip. “That pasta…” Her voice holds a hint of drowsiness, but it’s playful too. “Where the hell did you learn to cook like that?”
I tilt my head toward her, and a smirk tugs at my mouth. “My mom.”
Her finger stills. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I stare up at the ceiling for a beat. “She was Italian. The kind who thought boxed noodles were a crime. Every Sunday, she’d start her homemade sauce before sunrise, and the house would smell like garlic and basil all day. She kept a wooden spoon in her hand like it was a weapon. And if Randy or I would even dare to get in her way when she was cooking, she’d threaten to hit us upside the heads with it.” I laugh at the memories. “Needless to say, she was a tough-as-nails woman who made sure we knew our way around a kitchen before we could drive.”
Once my mind catches up with my mouth, with what I’ve just revealed, I’m shocked at how easily the words even came out. I honestly can’t remember the last time I said anything about my mom out loud.
“Your mom sounds incredible.” Breezy props her chin on my chest. “I bet she’d be proud of that pasta.”
“Maybe.” I breathe out. “She actually passed away twelve years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”
Her expression shifts, tender in a way that makes something inside me ache. “I’m sorry, Tad.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”
I’m surprised how easy it feels to talk about my mom with Breezy. I honestly can’t remember the last time I talked about Mom to even my dad or Randy. Frankly, it’s been years since we’ve reminisced on memories of her at all.
But then again, she died two years before…I ended up in Red Bridge. Before everything happened.