Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
“Now, pour.” Finally looking back up at him reveals to me a hard to interpret expression. “I have ass to kick.”
Tucker chuckles, shakes his head, and fills each of our glasses halfway.
Prone to winning the game by exercising patience – one of my better qualities – I put a tried-and-true plan into motion. After dividing up currency that makes absolutely no sense – well less sense than the paper money – I use my turns to study my opponent.
To focus on what properties, he’s potentially eyeing.
What his targets are.
Or at least, I try to.
Between the slow-mo way wine dribbles past his small lips and the needlessly seductive fashion in which he cleans it up, I struggle to even remember how to speak.
Fuck remembering that its my go let alone a strategy.
“Alright, I wanna buy,” Tucker states at the same time he extends his arm around the couch space directly behind me. “I’m willing to offer two gummy worms and a one-minute neck rub.”
Equally intrigued and excited, has me squeaking higher pitched than intended. “What!?”
“You’re the beautiful banker, right?” Humor hops into his expression. “You get to make the call.”
I can’t help but grin alongside him. “True.”
“Will compliments get me a discount?”
“Probably not.”
“Eh, just as well. Wouldn’t wanna cheapen them when I really mean them.” Tucker doesn’t allow me a moment to process his proclamation. “Three gummy worms and a two-minute neck rub. Final offer.”
“Uh…” Thoughts of having his hands back on me the way they were last weekend while we pretended to date for four minutes causes my answer to come out breathlessly. “Sold.”
A slow smirk slips onto his face as he slides the candy pieces over to me. “Pleasure doing business with you, June Bug.”
This has to be the weirdest business deal in the history of business deals.
After the treats are in my possession, Tucker moves the property card over near his wine glass, picks up the gold sharpie, and begins transforming what should be a railroad property into what appears to be a food truck. Like he can hear my unspoken need for clarification, he announces, “This is a loaded fry food truck.” He lightens his shading technique. “Probably my favorite type, although a good falafel truck could absolutely give it a run for its money.” His gaze cuts over his shoulder to me. “Seriously. Who the fuck can resist falafel?”
Who the fuck can resist him?
Ugh.
The answer is obviously no one which probably attributes to how he gets around so easily.
Figuratively and physically.
“Yeah…” I slowly begin while reaching for my glass, “I’ve never actually had it.”
“What?!” His food outrage gets me giggling as it always does. “Put that on the list.”
My eyebrows lift in question.
“Put that on the list I know you’ve been making about foods you wanna try.”
“How do you know I have a list?”
“Because you have a list for everything.” He resumes his doodling. “I’ve actually got a bet going with Koose Koose that you’ve got a list of lists.”
I need him to be wrong.
“Got a bucket list?” Tucker casually asks, switching sharpies.
Sheepish nodding is attached to a barely audible, “Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t wait to start crossing shit off.” The change in tone is dark. Riddled in hurt rather than anger. “You never know when it’ll be too late.” His grip on the marker tightens. “You never know when you might wake up and the person you wanted to do that shit with is fucking gone.”
My mouth moves in spite of no sound initially leaking free yet when it finally does, the words that escape are not ones I would’ve predicted, “What’d you wanna do with your dad that you never got to?”
His neck noticeably tenses in response.
“Was it a particular place you wanted to go? Or more like an activity you never got to do?”
No words are spoken but his coloring slows.
“Was there like a piece of art you wanted to see with him?”
At that Tucker shakes his head, smile being batted away. “Dad was not into art.”
“What was he into?”
“History.” Our eyes once more reconnect. “He was a Marine. According to some of his old drinking buddies, a damn good one.”
“Did he…die during his service?”
“No. He uh…he actually retired around the time I was five to work in the private sector.” Tucker bends his leg to rest his free arm over it. “He wanted to be there for me. For us.” His Adam’s apple bobs agonizingly slow. “Working for Haworth Enterprises had him home by dinner most nights. It let him coach my soccer team and made it easy for him to stay home with me when I got sick. We got to travel all around the world together – usually for Mom’s job – but wherever we went, he wanted a place’s history. Not the shit you’d read about in a cherry-picked textbook. No. He wanted to hear the tales from the locals. The legends about places but more particularly the people. Unsung heroes were his favorite shit. And every town has ‘em.”