Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
“You love to cook?” he asked.
“Yeah, I do. Everything tastes so much better homemade. I remember my mom used to spend hours in the kitchen, every Sunday morning. She’d bake bread, cookies, muffins, bars, and treats for the week ahead. One Friday every month, we’d go on a ginormous food shopping spree, and we’d spend that Saturday preparing it all. She’d marinate meat to stick in the freezer for the whole month, which was awesome. We’d make burgers, different kinds of meatballs, sometimes we’d even make the meals as well.” She sighed, recalling the fond memories.
“Sounds like fun,” he said.
“It was a lot of fun. There were times when if we had too much food, we’d cook what we had and then take it around to neighbors. My family loved the whole community spirit.” She sighed.
It was moments like this, when she thought about what her parents did, that she wished she hadn’t left the small town where she’d grown up.
But, that was the problem—the memories. She had tried living and getting by, but it had been too painful. Everyone was so nice, but she found herself constantly in tears, feeling so alone and missing them.
Coming to the city had been like a breath of fresh air, which was kind of odd, considering some of the congestion and the constant fumes. She’d been able to finally heal, but the grief was always there.
She had her mother’s cookbooks, all her notebooks, not just on food, but everything she did. Her mother was an amazing knitter, and Candice had learned from her. She had the patterns her mother had kept over the years, including some of her own designs as well. They were the memories she wanted to keep and savor.
“What about you? Any memories you care to share about your parents?” she asked.
“No.”
He sounded so cold, so hard. Candice regretted asking him.
“Oh, of course.”
Silence fell between them, and she kept walking.
This man was certainly different.
Chapter Two
Antwone sat alone in his home, staring up at the ceiling. He was drinking another glass of whiskey, only this one was very different from the others he had before. This one was expensive. It was a nice drink.
He tried not to think about Candice. She had no place in his thoughts. It had been three days since he had walked her home—three days, when he had brought the conversation to a close. He took a long drink of his whiskey, finishing the glass.
He should have known his brother was going to make an appearance.
Draven didn’t knock on the door, but stormed into his office as if he owned the place. Technically, as far as Antwone was concerned, he did own half of everything that was his. If Draven wanted it, he could have it.
“Why are you not answering my calls?” Draven asked.
“Busy.”
Draven took the empty glass from him and put it down on the table.
The calmer Draven appeared, the angrier he was. “What the fuck is going on with you?” Draven asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the crap, Antwone. You and I both know you’ve got some problems.” Draven paced in front of him and then sat down on the coffee table. “Talk to me.”
Antwone sighed and looked at his brother. “What is there to talk about?”
Draven ran fingers through his hair. “Tell me.”
He leaned forward and stared into his brother’s eyes. “There is nothing wrong. Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife and kids?”
His brother stopped and looked at him.
Antwone stared right back. He didn’t have a care in the world.
“Is that what this is about?” Draven asked.
“What?”
“I’ve heard the rumors, Antwone. I know what people want.”
Antwone burst out laughing. “If you’re going to start paying attention to all the rumors, brother, we are fucked.”
“They want you to get married. They want you to settle down, have a couple of kids, and for everything to be roses and all that shit,” Draven said.
Antwone stood up and he was about to make his way over toward the drink as he needed another.
Draven stopped him, putting a hand on his chest. “Don’t do this.”
“What? Have a drink? Please, I think I’ve earned a drink, haven’t I?”
“Cut me off. Don’t do this. Don’t treat me like I’m one of them.”
“Ah, but to everyone, you are one of them, Draven,” he tutted. “You and I both know that. Have you agreed with them? Are you already lining up my virgin wife? A suitable candidate.” He wrinkled his nose at the very thought. He hated all things to do with the tradition.
For the past five years, he heard the whispers, the suggestions that he needed a wife and to produce an heir. Not having that status was starting to make his claim as The Boss weak.
He knew the men—his capos—were trying to prepare their daughters to be his wife. All of them were young, nineteen or twenty, children in his eyes. Antwone wasn’t interested in girls, never had been, even as a young man. He always wanted a woman.