Total pages in book: 198
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
“Which restaurant?”
“There’s only one open this early. The front desk can give you directions.” And it was usually busy with tourists and retired locals, so I figured it was the best place for us to meet so that she wouldn’t throw a fit. I hadn’t eaten breakfast there yet, but I drove by it every morning and knew what kind of traffic they got. It would be perfect.
“I’ll meet you there,” she said after a moment, her voice strained, and I knew this was costing her.
I rolled my eyes so well, Amos would have been proud. And the fact that he snickered cheered me up even though I didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to know I knew what he was doing.
“See you in an hour,” I said before hanging up, not bothering to wait for her to make another comment. I let out a deep breath to release the tension in my stomach. Once and for all, I told myself.
“You okay?” Amos asked.
“Yeah,” I told him. “My old mother-in-law is in town and wants to meet up.”
He yawned.
“I’m going to get ready in your bathroom and then head out,” I said. “Need anything? Why are you awake this early?”
“After Dad woke us up, I stayed up and haven’t gone to sleep yet.” He paused. “What does she want?”
“The Antichrist? I’m not sure. Either to get me to go back to work for them or . . .” I shrugged, not willing to say it out loud, not even thinking about what I’d admitted. That I had worked for my ex. Of all the things we’d talked about, neither father nor son had asked about what I used to do for a living. I’d told them I’d been an assistant when we’d first met, but they’d never asked for more information.
And he either didn’t care or was too tired to notice or pay attention because all he did was nod, his gaze bleary.
I cursed under my breath at what the hell I was about to do. “I won’t take too long in the bathroom, Mini Eric Clapton. If you fall asleep before I get out, I’ll see you later. Tell your dad I’ll be back.”
I got to the diner early. It was a cute, very small restaurant wedged between a retail store that had been around for over a hundred years and a real estate company. It was tourist central, even though the only people visiting this time of year were hunters from Texas and California mostly.
But I knew that everything with Mrs. Jones was a power play, and that would include getting to the diner ahead of time and picking out her seat.
Fortunately, I managed to snag a table—waving at a couple I recognized who frequented the Outdoor Experience—and picked my seat facing the door. Sure enough, five minutes after sitting down and ten minutes before we were supposed to meet, I spotted her by the door—thin, tan, and slimmer than ever. Then I noticed the way she was clinging to her thirty-five-thousand-dollar purse like if it brushed against something in the diner, she’d get cooties.
I knew for a fact she’d worked at a Waffle House back in the day.
God, help me with this family.
The best thing I ever did was get kicked out of it. And that knowledge made me straighten my spine. I was happy. Healthy. I had my whole future ahead of me. I had friends and loved ones. Maybe I still had no clue what I was going to be doing a year from now, much less five or ten, but I was happy. Happier and more secure than I’d been in a long, long time.
And that was why I was smiling as I stood up and caught Mrs. Jones’s attention. She frowned, upset at being got, and made her way over as I sat back down. Just as she took the seat across from me, I held my hand out to her.
Did I want to be the bigger person? No. Would it irritate her if I was? Yes. And that’s why I did it.
She looked at it with surprise. She sniffed as she shook it, her hand cool and almost clammy. Either somebody was nervous or irritated. I hoped both.
“Hello, Aurora,” she said.
“Hi, Mrs. Jones.” I felt some more of that lingering bitterness slip away. I opened my menu, regretting leaving my overnight oatmeal in the fridge at Rhodes’s so I’d have time to get ready.
I had thought about not putting makeup on or doing my hair but decided against it. I wanted her to see with her own eyes that I was kicking ass and taking names. Kind of.
You know what? I was kicking ass. I was fine. Better than ever, and that was the absolute truth. My hair was healthy since it was totally grown out after a decade of frying it to get it the pale blonde it had been. I was tan from all the time I still managed to spend outside, and I was better mentally and physically than I had been in forever.