Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Maybe you guys should, like, invest in a club or something,” I suggested. “Lots of cash…” I added.
“Look at you, knowing shit about cleaning money,” he said, eyes twinkling. “It’s always the quiet ones with their noses in books who know all sorts of shit you’d never expect.”
Our conversation was interrupted by Triss, Cato, and Levee’s reappearance, the latter of the two looking a little shell-shocked.
“Don’t mind them,” Triss declared, waving at them. “They just learned how a menstrual cup works. They’re still processing. Okay. I think… dare I say it? We might be done. Who wants to go get coffee?”
I was about to put the book down that I was holding, but Alaric pulled it from my hands and tossed it in the cart. Then went ahead and grabbed another of the ones I’d read the blurb on in as well.
Suddenly, I could see how easily this club could suck you in and never let you go.
Objectively, they were criminals, yes. But there was no denying that they were good, kind men too.
There was something very familiar about their family dynamic, too. It was all laid-back and easy. It was hard to feel out of place with them.
Until, of course, many hours later, we made our way back to the clubhouse.
My stomach was all twisted up in knots as we walked inside. But it all seemed for nothing, because Donovan was nowhere to be found.
“My honeys are here,” Eddie declared as we walked into the kitchen, finding him already back to work, chopping up vegetables at the island.
“Where’s Donovan?” Alaric asked, putting my bags down on the kitchen table.
“The big guys took him for a drive. Had some serious stuff to discuss, I guess,” he said, shrugging, seemingly genuinely uninterested in whatever that ‘serious stuff’ might have been, even though he clearly had a connection to the club.
“Were we supposed to have church?” Cato asked, looking tense, worried that he may have missed it.
“Don’t think so,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “They didn’t say nothing when they were heading out.”
“How long are we talking here, Eddie-man?” Triss asked, wrapping an arm around him and looking down at his chopping.
“At least an hour,” he told her.
“So what I’m hearing is I have some time to go play in that giant pool again,” she said. “You coming?” she asked, looking at me, knowing damn well I avoided any situation that involved a bathing suit if I could help it.
“I was actually going to ask Eddie if he wanted any help,” I said, shrugging.
“Suit yourself!” she said, already pulling off her top, and I was going to pretend I didn’t know she wasn’t wearing anything under her shirt.
“So, you cook?” Eddie asked, reaching for one of his many aprons, inspecting it to make sure it wasn’t inappropriate, then handing it to me.
“Not like you cook, but yes.”
And then we set to work. Chopping, stirring, comparing notes on favorite flavors and ways of building meals out of favorite sides when we were cooking for varied tastes.
Eddie had a chaotic style of just… making a little bit of everything. And all the guys and girls loved that about him.
So dinner was a mix of burritos, spaghetti with homemade sauce, grilled vegetables seasoned in a sweet balsamic dressing, and—I kid you not—a baked potato bar.
A baked potato bar.
Foil-wrapped baked potatoes lined the center of the table to keep warm, and were flanked in every possible topping from sour cream, cheese, and chives, to bacon, broccoli in cheese sauce, and some leftover chili.
“How are all these guys not needing to be carried out of here via crane?” I asked when we finished.
“Amazing, ain’t it?” he asked, shaking his head. “Meanwhile, I just breathe it in…” he said, patting his rounded belly.
“A lot of women love a little padding on a man,” I told him, shrugging. “More comfy to snuggle,” I added.
“Alright. I’m gonna go get some towels for our swim club out there,” Eddie said, a little bouncy at the idea of people excitedly running in to eat the food he’d toiled over for hours.
I went back to grab the pitcher of punch I’d thrown together. It was a simple favorite of mine from childhood. Cranberry and pineapple juice, a little sleeve of frozen lemonade, and some ginger ale. It could be spiked once they poured their glasses, or enjoyed without the booze like I preferred.
I was just putting it on the island when I suddenly felt like someone was watching me, then looked up to find Donovan standing there.
“There you are,” he said, voice soft as his gaze moved over me.
“Dinner is ready,” I said, gesturing out toward the island and the countertops, everything covered in food.
“You cooked?”
“I, ah, I chopped, mostly. And kept Eddie company. And made punch,” I said. “It was cook or skinny dip, so, uhm, I chose cooking,” I said.