Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I don’t think I regret saying it because I think she needed to remember that I have a mom. And I had a dad. She and Madoc don’t have to take on that burden.
I guess I get it, though. They helped me grow up.
“Let me enjoy my time while I’m here,” I tell her. “Let me try some of that Irish whiskey I hear Madoc is so good at making.”
A smile spreads across her face, but she still doesn’t look at me.
I hear a command. “You’re staying through the weekend.”
But it’s not her who says it. I lift my gaze to Madoc strolling up, his jacket hung over one arm as he rolls his sleeves back down.
“I have to be back Sunday.”
He doesn’t say anything, just tosses his wife an unreadable look before meeting my eyes again.
“But you know what I want to do?” I stand up straight. “Before we get plastered later…I wanna drive.”
Then, he smiles. “That’s my boy.” Digging out his keys, he tosses them to me and leans in to kiss his wife. “Wanna come?”
“No.” She turns and watches us walk to his old silver GTO, the car I first learned to drive. “You go. Show him what Fallstown has become.”
I defer to him. “Fallstown?” I ask. “What happened to the Loop?”
He just chuckles, climbing into his passenger seat while I get behind the wheel.
Quinn
“Thank you.” I hand a small bag and coffee to the customer, a woman dressed in straight-legged white pants and a blue pinstriped shirt. “Enjoy your day.”
She leaves with a smile, and I watch her go, admiring her work clothes. I can’t dress like that here, but I could look more professional, I guess.
I dust off the flour on my T-shirt and move away from the counter, removing an empty tray from the case. I hand it to Hailey, the cashier with two perpetually messy buns sitting on top of her head like horns. “Can you take that?” I slide out another, stacking it on top. “And that too. Thanks.”
She backs through the kitchen door, spinning around with the trays in hand. I slide behind Noel, who works the espresso machine, his thick silver rings glinting in the sunlight.
I approach the next customer, and she opens her mouth to speak, but then Mace is there. She butts in. “Emergency.”
“Mace,” I scold, throwing a glance to the young woman she entered with. Mousy brown hair hangs in her eyes. I don’t recognize her.
The darker-haired one, Dylan’s age and dressed like a rocker with the body of a sexy Marine, grips the edge of the display case between us. The Green Street tattoo is dark against her tawny neck. “I need two-dozen brownies,” she tells me.
“No.”
I take a step, trying to tend to the customer she pushed out of the way.
The woman’s mouth twitches in a nervous smile as her eyes flit between Mace and me.
But then Mace is there again, and I sigh. “When? How soon?”
“Eight seconds ago.”
I shake my head, craning my neck to the customer again.
Impossible. I can’t just drop everything.
Quickly, the customer blurts out, “Two loaves of bread, and please tell me you have more of that garlic dipping oil.” She winces a little. “I didn’t see it out on the shelves.”
I hold up a finger. “Yes. I do. Just a moment.”
I twirl around, rushing into the kitchen, and dive into the pantry to grab a box. Mace follows on my heels, her friend following her.
I plop the box down on the table and reach behind me for the scissors on the high shelf. “You can have—I mean, buy—two dozen of whatever I have left,” I growl to Mace.
“But Hugo wants brownies.”
I slice open the box. “I’m creeped out that your gangster boss even knows who I am. I really wish he didn’t.” I dig out a jar of the garlic oil. “And what kind of criminals like brownies?”
“They’re for one of his associates.” She folds her arms over her chest, the black leather jacket grinding. “Their kid has a potluck at school or something. I promised I’d make it happen.”
Hailey carries a tray refilled with goodies back out to the front, and I catch sight of the shallow box on the work table, the old cell phone I’d put in there last night missing. Did someone—
Ugh, never mind. Too busy.
“Mace, I’m swamped.”
“I know!” She grabs the girl next to her by her shirt and hauls her closer. “That’s why I brought you help.” She gestures to the kid. “She’ll work for free today and tomorrow.”
I eye the girl, seeing her light brown hair pushed behind one ear as she sports a faded navy sweatshirt two sizes too big. Is she even sixteen? Or even consenting to this?
I lift an eyebrow at Mace, and my lungs constrict as she pulls a knife out of her back pocket—her last resort. She flips open the blade, gripping it at her side as she stares at me.