Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
See. Working on it.
“Mags, didn’t you make rolls?” my father cleverly intervenes in his infamous fashion.
“Butter?!” Henz pipes up from beside me, somehow already covered in sauce.
“And extra napkins it seems,” Mom snickers prior to abandoning her seat to retrieve the needed items.
“Not hungry?” Dad inquires at a lower volume from beside Rainne.
“Guess not as hungry as I thought.”
He slowly nods and has a bite of his potatoes. “Were you hungrier before my son-in-law didn’t return your call?”
There’s no stopping my brow from pinching together. “How did you-”
His sarcastic expression says it all.
Ugh.
Retired detective my ass.
“Dad is having dinner with someone else,” Henz joyfully announces to the entire table.
“Oh,” my mother states in a genuinely surprised tone upon her arrival with the bread, butter, and napkins, “who with?”
“Work,” Rainne answers as though the question was directed at her. “He’s been having dinner with work all week. All. Week. Long. Mimi.”
Anxiety makes itself known once more prompting me to grip my fork tighter.
Bury my attention on the marshmallows that are melted on top of the sweet potatoes.
“Interesting,” Mom casually comments. “I don’t think I’ve ever known your dad to work this much.”
“It happens,” I meekly retort on the tiniest forkful.
Dad grunts at my response, yet thankfully changes the subject. “You two sprinkles ready for Christmas?” He oscillates his gaze between his grandchildren. “There are just four days to go.”
“We know Pop Pop,” Rainne politely informs between rib bites. “Our Grinch calendar reminds us.”
“Is everything still a yes for our traditional baking Santa cookies, making magical reindeer food, and going out to Silver’s Steakhouse for Christmas Eve dinner?” Mom enthusiastically asks about what has openly become her favorite tradition.
It’s impossible not to flash her an adoring smile. “Yes.”
Henz absentmindedly sucks sauce off her fingers and asks, “Mimi, can we use pink glitter this year? I think the reinbeer will like pink like I do.”
“Reindeer,” Rainne promptly corrects.
“Santa could probably use a beer after the long night he has,” Dad quietly teases.
“Charles!”
“How come the elves never get any love?” my father speaks up as he grabs a dinner roll. “We do all this work for the bearded man-”
“I don’t like that big thing,” Henz hisses and picks up another rib.
“-and his ponies-”
“Reindeer, Pop Pop!” Rainne huffs in a way that sounds almost identical to her grandmother.
“-but how come we don’t do anything for the elves? They spend a lot of time building toys. And making cocoa. And gingerbread men.” Dad presents a playful shoulder bounce. “Maybe we should do something nice for them? Bake some cookies for Santa to take home to them. Bet they’d like the peppermint bark ones your mom makes.”
His unclever method to score more Christmas treats is met by an equally jovial glare.
“We should! We should!” my daughters croak in tandem prompting me to shake my head at their grandfather.
This man. I swear every holiday season he eats twice his weight in cookies. Hm? Yeah. I still drop some off at the precinct for his old colleagues. They’re still extended family despite the fact he’s turned in his badge. And we still do lots of the community activities with them. I think it’s important for me and the girls to be a part of the community.
Dinner picks up in liveliness for me due to the elf idea, and I welcome the distraction. We talk about what else the elves might like – something more unique in spite of my father’s insistence that they want cookies – during the rest of dinner and into dessert.
It’s not a surprise that they get sleepy along our short drive home nor is it unexpected that they’re cranky during their baths. Bedtime reading usually requires at least two books, yet thanks to the long day they’ve had, it’s easy to negotiate just one agreed upon Pigeon book.
My own unwinding time involves a glass of wine, a vanilla scented bubble bath, and a Sloan Mathers’s novel. I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been lost in the whirlwind romance; however, I’m guessing longer than I realize when Archer suddenly appears in the room with a puzzled expression. “You’re up later than normal for a weeknight, sweetheart.”
“And you’re home later than normal for a weeknight, Archer,” I immediately counter.
“I know.” His back braces itself against the doorframe. “Had some things to take care of.”
“Work?”
He doesn’t hesitate to nod filling me with rage.
“Funny, I talked to Kelby earlier, and she wasn’t aware that you were working late.”
Archer’s green gaze flashes the tiniest flicker of guilt.
“Secret project?”
His arms fold defensively across his chest at the same time he answers, “You could say that.”
“And is this secret project the reason you aren’t answering my calls?”
“Phone died.”
“And suddenly your car charger doesn’t work?”
“I let someone borrow it and forgot to get it back.” The instant and convenient answers irks me further, a fact that is evidently easy to read on my face. “You’re pissed.”