Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“Jesus Christ, I thought you were supposed to be good at profiling people,” I muttered into my glass.
He shot me a wolfish look. “Oh, I am. Mark my words, buddy. This is it for you.”
Ethan shook his head in amusement and finished his water. “I don’t know if Darius is right or wrong, but that’s why I’m never having kids.”
“Me either,” Darius agreed. “I mean, that ain’t the reason, but fuck no. I ain’t settling down either.”
Ethan chuckled. “I doubt any of us are settling down. Our success rate with women…”
I laughed under my breath.
Darius smirked. “We’re no grand prizes.”
True.
“Speak for yourself,” Ethan scoffed. “I’m a perfect ten.”
“You’re modest too, princess,” I told him.
He waved that off and eyed the server who came over to our table and asked if we wanted another round. We exchanged a look, all of us reckoning it was time to check in with Pipsqueak. So, we asked for the check, and Darius said today was on him.
“Why? Don’t be stupid.” I reached for my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans.
“I’m not stupid,” he said. “Despite what I said, I’m happy for you. That girl of yours will be lucky to have you as a dad, and she’ll have a handful of uncles to teach her how to knock down boys.”
I smiled, humbled by his words. “I appreciate that.”
He side-eyed Ethan. “Except you—you can pay for your own rabbit food, little brother.”
We cracked up.
On our way back toward Hemlock Avenue where Pipsqueak was, Darius announced his plans to retire from his field. These days, I knew a bit more about his work, and the second he’d admitted he was a private military contractor, I’d been waiting impatiently. I didn’t want another gravesite to visit.
“I’ll need another year or two,” he warned. “I’m not retiring tomorrow.”
“One or two is better than ten or eleven,” I settled for saying. The street was too crowded, making it difficult to carry on a conversation. It was a good thing traffic was diverted during this week. If I wasn’t one step away from walking into someone, I was a second away from being plowed down by a stroller.
Shit, that would be me next year. I’d be the fucker with a stroller.
“Goddamn, check out that line,” Ethan said.
I followed his gaze and grinned when I spotted all the people at Pipsqueak’s tent. Poor James, he’d thought he’d sit in the background and read a book in the shade. Now he was assisting his wife and daughter for all his worth.
“Let’s go help them,” I replied.
We maneuvered our way through the crowd and ducked in between two tents, and James was quick to announce that his shift was over. Darius and I chuckled and took over for him while Ethan took the tray of samples from atop the glass counter to lure more people into the line.
“Do you need a break, sweetheart?” I asked for only Pipsqueak to hear.
She shook her head quickly, focused on filling a gift box with truffles. “In the zone, can’t talk.”
Very well, then.
I relieved Mary from the “money math,” as she so eloquently put it, and I creased my forehead as she tried to hand me her calculator.
She merely snorted and eased back to where James was seated.
The double counter looked exactly like the ones used at ice cream parlors, but instead of ice cream tubs, there were trays upon trays with chocolate treats. I just appreciated the cool air breezing out of it.
When someone in line asked a very busy Pipsqueak if she’d really made all the chocolates herself, Darius did his job as her brother to talk her up. Probably sensing that she was too overwhelmed to speak, he made her flush as he bragged about her hard work and how the proceeds were going straight into her college fund. She’d prepared for this all summer, he said.
For the next few hours, it was hectic, to say the least.
Pipsqueak was raking it in, and we were all incredibly proud of her.
Ethan had to run home to get more of Strawberry Summer and The Mister, so people were clearly enjoying my flavor.
I’d finally tried it this morning, and I could honestly say I’d never enjoyed anything dessert-like as much as I liked that one. There was a box of a dozen pieces hidden under the counter that I’d bought for myself. And I seriously hadn’t bought it just to support her new business. The taste of whiskey and dark chocolate and toffee had fucking melted in my mouth.
It’d been a brilliant move on her part too. From a marketing point of view. I’d lost count of the women who’d added a couple of The Mister for their husbands, and whenever a guy came up, that one was the immediate pick.
The line became shorter and shorter as the sun dipped lower, replacing the families and shoppers with a new crowd. Those who were in the Valley to have dinner and party.