Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“As if I’d waste gravy,” Sarah retorts.
“What? All I’m saying is …”
While Jon tries to dig himself out of his own grave by arguing more, I cut past them into the dining room to catch the doll midair. “Which one of you is Carson?”
The one on the left points to the one on the right.
“Liar! I’m Brooks,” the one on the right says.
“No, I’m Brooks.” The first one smirks, egging his brother on.
It works. “No, you’re Carson!” The twin on the right reaches out to shove his brother and knocks his sister down in the process.
“For fuck’s sake. You two are feral.” I scoop up a crying Macy in my arms before she gets trampled by these two, tucking the doll into her grip. “You know what? I don’t care who’s who. You’re both shitheads.”
They freeze and gape up at me. At least they understand that.
“I don’t know what you did to lose your electronics, but I’m sure you deserved it. Now you’ve got two choices: Either find a game from that box over by the fireplace to play quietly or I’m gonna drag you two out by your legs and leave you in the fields with the other wild animals for the night.” I lean down so they can see my menacing stare. “Guess which one I’m hoping you’ll pick? I’ll give you a hint. It’s not the first choice.”
With blanched faces, they dart over to dig out the checkerboard.
From the threshold to the kitchen, Jon watches me with wide eyes. He opens his mouth—
“Don’t even …,” I warn.
After another pause, he goes with, “That’s a strategy I haven’t tried,” and goes back to consoling a sulking Egan.
The chaos has finally settled. For now.
“Hey, Uncle Logan, can we play poker again?” Thomas asks, perched on the couch, the deck in his hands.
“How about after dinner? It’s a little crazy in here right now.”
His head bobs eagerly.
I guess I’m committed now. I move to set Macy down, but she curls her twiggy arms tight around my neck with a feeble whine of “No,” stalling me. I’ve never held a body this tiny before. She feels so foreign and fragile, and yet she clings to me with such ferocity, I don’t think I could shake her off if I wanted to.
I don’t want to, I admit.
A knock sounds on the front door.
“For Heaven’s sake. It’s almost six o’clock on Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend,” my mom calls. The dogs haven’t let out a single bark, too focused on their hopeful prize. “Logan, can you get that?”
“Yeah.” With one arm wrapped around Macy—at least she’s not scared of her uncle from prison anymore—I amble to the door.
Emery stands on the porch.
Chapter 22
Emery
I clutch a bottle of wine as I face Logan framed by the Landry doorway, and a fresh wave of illicit memories from two nights ago bowls over me. But it’s how little Macy hugs his neck that stirs my heartbeat. She’s always been skittish around strangers, but I guess her larger-than-life uncle isn’t a stranger anymore.
“I didn’t think you were coming.” His deep voice grates as his eyes scour over my face.
“Neither did I,” I admit too freely, tucking a bothersome strand of hair behind my ear. “Is there still room for one more at the dinner table?”
He tracks the subtle move. His chest lifts with a deep inhale and then he steps back to allow me inside. “I’m sure there is.”
The house smells of roasted turkey, stirring my hunger. It’s a far cry from the coffee and protein bars I’ve been living off these past two days.
The older boys linger in the living room, the twins huddled over a checkerboard on the coffee table. It’s a rare sight—they’re usually either glued to their tablets or tormenting their siblings.
“Hey, Uncle Logan, can we play poker with you too?” one of them asks.
“Depends on if you’re still shitheads after dinner,” Logan says, shutting the door behind me.
“Shitheads,” Macy parrots in a soft, childish whisper that earns my gasp. I struggle not to laugh.
Logan shushes her with a chuckle. “Don’t get me in trouble with your mom. You’re not allowed to say that until you’re older.”
“Who was at the door—oh, Emery!” Annie’s eyes light up as she appears from the direction of the kitchen, her signature braid slung over her shoulder, wiry strands slipping out, her apron smeared with flour and grease. “You changed your mind!”
“If that’s okay with you.” I hold out the chilled bottle of white.
“Oh, don’t be silly.” She collects the wine in one hand while squeezing my biceps affectionately. “I’m so glad you came. Just in time too. We’re about to sit.” Annie’s always cheerful but she’s especially so this year. I have to assume it’s because of Logan.
Sarah sweeps in then with a ceramic dish filled with mashed potatoes. “Hey, Em. Glad you could make it.” Her eyes dart to Logan, a knowing twinkle in them.