Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“She’s alone right now. At her place, isn’t she?”
Why did I leave Tessa alone there? I called to get security on her, but—
I stalk forward, ready to pummel the smirk of his ugly face. “If you harm one fucking hair on her head, I’ll—”
He raises his hand. “Shut the fuck up, Black. Ten million, and this all goes away.”
“You’re not getting a fucking penny from me.”
“Then I guess I have to go to Daddy and big brother.”
I meet his gaze, my own darting daggers at him. “You know what? Fucking go for it. Do whatever you want. They’ll be angry, yeah. But in the end, blood is thicker than water, and you’ll get what’s coming to you.” I grab him by the shirt, yank the chain off his neck, and throw him to the concrete floor of the warehouse.
“You give that back, you son of a bitch.” He rises, rubbing his behind.
I dangle it right out of his reach. “I didn’t want to do this, but I think I’ll have to invoke the age-old finders-keepers rule.”
“You didn’t find it. You took it.”
“Potato po-tah-to,” I say. “I’ve got better things to do now. Do not contact me again.”
Chapter Forty-One
Tessa
The flan is out of the oven and cooling. I place sugar and butter in a small saucepan to make the caramel sauce, and once the flan is set, I’ll refrigerate it and apply the sauce later.
Ben is coming.
I decide to take a shower, and then on a whim I paint my fingernails and toenails.
I had a manicure and pedicure in Jamaica, but I haven’t done this myself since…
Since before Garrett.
I wiggle my toes, looking at the light blue color.
I’ve missed this.
I’ve missed doing the silly things girls do—painting my fingernails and toenails, getting excited about a new guy.
It feels…
It feels good.
Part of it will always be tainted by what Garrett did. About what happened before my first communion.
And I’ll always miss my father.
But my heart still beats.
And I want to make the most of this life.
I dress in a pair of baggy jeans—boyfriend jeans as Skye calls them. But I like them. I like them because I can pair them with a tight top—today a skintight blue camisole that matches the color I painted my fingers and toes.
The contrast of the loose boyfriend jeans and the tight camisole looks good. Sexy, even.
Funny. I haven’t dressed to entice a man in a long time. Sure, I wore a bathing suit in Jamaica, but that was because I was in Jamaica. I was on the beach. That’s where you wear bathing suits.
I could’ve bought a one-piece for the trip, but I don’t like one-pieces. I hate how you have to take the whole thing off when you need to go to the bathroom. It’s a pain, and for that reason alone, I’ve always preferred two-piece suits.
My hair is clean and glossy, and I’m tempted to wear it down, but instead, because I’m cooking, I pull it up into a high ponytail to keep it out of my face.
When I look in the mirror, the person looking back at me finally looks familiar.
I’m back. I may not be completely healed yet, but I’m here. I’m me. And I’m cooking for a man I’m interested in. A man who has only kissed me once.
I need another kiss.
Old Tessa wore a lot of makeup. I was big on the smoky eye and lots of contour. Tonight I choose not to do that. I keep it to some lip stain and some blush with just a touch of mascara.
That’s it.
And I still see me.
I’ll never be the Tessa of old. Experience has changed her.
But I don’t have to be sad-and-depressed Tessa, either.
I can be a new Tessa. New Tessa doesn’t need to hide behind makeup. New Tessa appreciates her own natural beauty.
Satisfied, I leave the bathroom, keeping my feet bare. The combination of tight camisole and boyfriend jeans works well with bare feet, especially when my toes are freshly painted.
I head to my kitchenette, pull the enchiladas out of the refrigerator, remove the foil, and slide them into my preheated oven.
I wish I’d had time to make homemade refried beans, but I didn’t. That’s a twenty-four-hour project, starting with letting pinto beans cook on low in a slow cooker overnight.
So I cheat. I open a can of refried beans, throw them in a pot over the stove, and add some salsa, mixing until they’re heated. Then I place them in a ceramic dish, shred some cheese on top, and slide them in the oven with the enchiladas.
I couldn’t find any good-looking avocados at the market, so no homemade guacamole tonight. But I did put together some pico de gallo with a jalapeno added for spiciness, which I’ll serve with tortilla chips.
Rita shuffles around my feet. I pick her up. “Hello, Margarita.” I kiss her little head. “Any other time when I made this meal, I would be making your namesake cocktail.”