Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
More smoke plumes from the frying pan. “Cumbuckets,” Sulli curses.
“I have it.” Akara quickly takes the pan off the heat, but he doesn’t see me pass to throw out the pasta box. Heat lances my wrist, the pan bumping into me.
“Shit.” Akara loses his grip on the pan and drops it.
Broccoli scatters across the ground.
Sulli stares at the vegetable for a second. “That’s where broccoli belongs, and you know, I’m not too sad it’s there.” Her eyes hit mine. “Are you okay?”
“All good.” Just a small burn. Nothing I can’t handle.
Akara cringes. “I’m sorry, man.”
“Maybe the three of us shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen,” I say.
Akara laughs. “Hey, I’m all for takeout.”
Cheering escalates on the TV, and we glance towards the living room. Quinn’s still eagle-eyeing the fuck out of us, even behind the Fortune magazine. And I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it.
Akara looks back. “How about we take out the remnants of this pasta to the penthouse? Maybe we won’t have an audience there.”
“Right on,” I nod.
Sulli says, “Sounds like a fucking plan.”
We’re able to finish cooking the pasta. Strain it. Divide it into three different paper bowls. No vegetables. No spices. I stare at my bowl of overcooked, musciad rotini that literally has only a splash of olive oil.
My mom would be wearing a thousand different expressions of disappointment if she saw this mess. Christ, even Thatcher would be giving me shit.
We ride the elevator up to the penthouse. Hand-to-heart, it feels like there’s no storm ahead on the ascent. No worries. No cares in the world. Just three knucklefucks in an elevator carrying bowls of disgustingly bland pasta.
Akara keeps glancing at the red welt on my wrist. “You should ice it.”
I wear a slight smile. “You should stick to being the boss and not the doctor.” I stab my fork into the pasta. “You’re not supposed to ice burns.”
He sends me a look. “And suddenly Banks has an MD.”
“No, I have an MG. I make guesses. But our MD told me not to ice burns.”
“Farrow?” Sulli asks.
“Yeah. The night of the townhouse fire, my dumbass was icing a burn with cold vending machine drinks.” That night I only really had minor burns. Nothing that doctors needed to treat. Nothing that left permanent scars. Not like my brother who still has lasting reminders of that horrible fucking night.
Akara bows his head with a pained expression. “Top five worst nights of my life.” He physically pinned me down when my brother ran into the fire. When I thought I’d lost Thatcher, Akara made sure he didn’t lose me too.
I clear a tight knot in my throat. “Yeah, let’s not talk about it then.”
Both of their gazes soften on me.
Akara pats my back. “I see burying painful shit is still the Moretti standard.”
“Not that easy to break,” I say lightly, but I know if I could, I’d break the silence with them. I already told them I had an older brother. Skylar. They know about his existence and his exit from this world, but I haven’t been able to really describe that night to either of them.
It’s not just fourth or fifth in my Worst Nights ranking.
It’s number one.
The absolute motherfuckin’ worst. And seeing as how my dad is working for Akara now, I’m not too peachy keen on shading my dad into some kind of villain. What he said to me at twelve-years-old was just about as villainous as they come. Akara can’t know.
I can’t tell him.
Maybe one day I can tell her.
“And here I am,” Sulli says, stabbing her pasta, “the over-sharer.”
I can’t help but smile. “You can always overshare with me, mermaid.”
She leans closer to me, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
“Funny, I was going to say the same thing,” Akara says with a teasing smile on Sulli, “Minus the mermaid part.”
Sulli elbows him. “That’s the best part.”
Fuck it, I’m gloating.
Akara looks unafflicted. Confidence at 110%. I’m at 100%, and I’m A-okay with losing a battle of arrogance if the winner has a surplus.
Akara says, “You melted when he said you can overshare.”
“Banks is good with words,” she professes.
Nobody has ever said that about me before. I stare down at her with a swelling feeling rising in my chest. I’m already six-seven, but fuck, I feel a thousand-feet taller.
Akara leans down and whispers in her ear. Loud enough that I can hear. “I’m better with my hands, Sul.” His fingers trail down her spine towards her ass.
Hot fucking damn.
I watch her squirm a little. Hell, I feel her squirm since my arm is around her shoulders. Her breath shortens, and he whispers, “There is still so much I want to do with you.” The depth in his voice makes his words sound greater. Like he’s lamenting about more than just sex. Like he’s yearning for time.