Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“My dad’s too. He and my brother Sean worked on them for hours.”
“Does your dad still own the shop?”
She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Her voice was low and sad when she spoke. “No. My dad sold the shop after my brother died.” She looked away. “Then my dad died a couple of years ago.”
Without thinking, I reached out and touched her hands. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded, not speaking.
“How?” I asked quietly.
“Sean was on his bike. A car cut him off, and he rolled and was struck by another car coming in the opposite direction. He died at the scene.”
“Fuck.”
“My dad blamed himself—needlessly, of course—and he never got over it. He sold the shop, and not long after, he got cancer. I don’t think he had the strength to fight it, and I lost him too.” She met my sympathetic gaze. “So, I know what you mean when you say you miss your dad, Maxx. I miss them both every day.”
A moment of kinship passed between us. A shared feeling of total understanding and clarity. We’d both lost people we loved, and we knew that pain.
Still, I didn’t want to get too personal. Too involved. I couldn’t risk that.
Despite what Mary said, it would be a long time before I could trust anyone new again.
I cleared my throat. “In answer to your question, no, I’m not attached to the logo. It’s pretty old-fashioned.”
“Like your ad,” she teased, but it was without malice.
I chuckled. “I told you, I come by it honestly. My dad was old-fashioned, and I guess I am too in some ways.”
“Holy moly, Maxx. Did you just agree with me on something?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She laughed. The sound was sultry and rich. She tilted her head back, her hair tumbling down past her shoulders as she let out her amusement. She was breathtaking in the sun, the brightness of her hair, her profile delicate and pale. I had to look away.
“Got it, boss.”
She slipped her glasses back on and pulled her laptop back on her knees. “Okay. Once I catch up on paperwork and invoices, I’ll start designing a new one and work on the website. I already have some ideas.”
“I need to approve them.”
She peered over her frames, shaking her head. “And we were getting along so well. Of course I’ll show them to you.”
“And if I don’t like them, you’ll change them.”
“I assumed so from your tone.”
“I want to be involved. It’s my business, so you include me in every decision, do you understand?”
With a huff, she stood, brushing her hands along the back of her shapely legs. She picked up her laptop. “Yowsers. And you say I have big balls. I’m going to check on dinner.”
Rufus followed her, giving me the eye as he trailed behind her. She must have charmed him with treats. That was the only explanation.
I watched her walk away, her ass spectacular in those shorts. She was rather touchy about the logo thing. It was my business; of course I would want to check it. The balls remark was really uncalled-for.
I stood and grabbed the blanket, shaking it out. I followed her into the house, stopping as the scent of whatever she was cooking hit me. It was rich and hearty, and there was a trace of sweet lingering in the air.
I set down the blanket, wandering into the kitchen. “Something smells awesome,” I offered in way of apology, although I wasn’t sure what I needed to apologize for. I didn’t want to jeopardize dinner, though.
She lifted the lid off a roaster and stirred the contents.
“It’s ready whenever you’re hungry.” She took a bowl, filling it, then busied herself at the counter. She turned, and my eyes widened at the sight of the piece of pie on the plate she had placed over the bowl. Lemon meringue. My absolute favorite.
“You made pie?”
“Yes, Captain Obvious, I made pie.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Short ribs.”
She grabbed some cutlery, tucked her laptop under her arm, and sidled around me. “Make sure you clean up.”
“Wait, where are you going?”
“To my room. Sundays are supposed to be a day off, and I’m done. You’re on your own, unless you tell me you need to be spoon-fed too.”
“You’re going to eat in your room?”
She waved toward the crowded, messy dining table. “Unless I sit in your lap, there is nowhere for me to eat, and besides, I want to enjoy my dinner. And with you glowering at me, barking orders, I doubt that will happen. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Then she was gone.
I stood, perplexed. Part of me wanted to go after her and tell her she could sit on my lap and eat. Then after, we could figure out how to work off the food. The other part of me was annoyed over her glowering remark. We’d had an amicable time chatting outside—until the website talk.