Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I waited for Raelynn and her friends to leave the bathroom and then made a run for it, straight to the door, into the parking lot, and back home.
And that was when I finally let myself cry.
“Wren?” Avery says gently. “You okay?”
I can feel the burn in my eyes again, but I refuse to let anyone—even Avery, Hazel, and Grandpa Joe—see me tear up over something that happened long ago. “I have to go. Thanks for the lasagna, but I—”
I don’t pause as they try to stop me. I basically run for the door, waving off their apologies the whole way.
“Wait . . . Wren . . .”
“It’s fine. I’m good.” If only that were true.
“You sure as fuck aren’t. What the hell happened between you two?” Hazel demands.
“Nothing. I’ll talk to you later.” Much, much later when I have myself back under control.
I’m climbing in my car when I hear Hazel’s exclamation, “Well, shit! We fucked that up.”
Chapter 12
JESSE
I can’t go back to the job site after that conversation with Jed. We’re dead in the water, and after this week, my crews are going to be scrambling for cash flow to make ends meet at home. All because of a divorce.
It’s ridiculous. It’s infuriating. And I feel like it’s my fault, or at least my problem to fix for my guys.
I need to do the one thing that always helps me think—play a table or two, alone. It’ll help me process and come up with a plan before word gets out so I can come to my guys with a solution, not just a problem that’ll implode their wallets.
At Puss N Boots, Charlene greets me with her usual flair and flirtiness, but I put her off politely. “Beer, burger, no bullshit.”
Maybe it’s my stellar personality, or more likely, my grunting caveman ways, but she smiles happily. “You got it, honey-baby. Coming right up.”
It’s early enough that the table in the back corner is vacant, so I rack the balls, grab a cue from the wall, and line up my opening shot. The crack! shoots out along with my breath, and balls scatter across the table.
I do it again and again, letting my mind clear of everything but the next shot as I clear the table. At some point, Charlene silently sets a pitcher of beer and a cold mug on a nearby table. A few minutes later, she delivers a burger too.
But I keep playing.
One game. Two games. Three games. I lose track of how long I play. At some point, I eat the burger and drink a beer. The restaurant fills up as people get off work and want to grab dinner or play a game themselves. I ignore them all, and thankfully, no one approaches me. Until two guys come up who I have to talk to.
“What’d that eight ball do to you?” Wyatt Ford asks, helping himself to a glass of my beer.
Wyatt’s married to my sister, Hazel, and for some strange reason thinks her special brand of batshit crazy is charming and adorable. They literally met when she attack-jumped a guy who’d turned into a sore loser after a pool game. Wyatt intervened, pulling her off the guy’s back and getting yelled at for his efforts. But that sketchy meeting somehow resulted in Wyatt falling in love with her, and now my sister is his problem.
I look up from my shot to meet Wyatt’s eyes. “Looked at me wrong.”
And with that, I make the shot blind without glancing back down at the ball. I don’t need to follow it to the pocket to know it sunk cleanly.
Wyatt chuckles and leans over to his brother, Winston, who’s wearing his sleeping son in a baby carrier on his chest. “Looks like someone’s in a piss-poor mood.”
“Don’t say p-i-s-s in front of Joe.” He covers the baby’s ears even though he spells out the not-cussword and the boy’s so deeply asleep there’s a puddle of drool on Winston’s shirt. “You good, man?” Winston asks me.
Winston’s a good guy, even if bringing a baby to Puss N Boots is . . . weird. I worked with him quite a bit when he was an architect at Ford Construction Company, working for his uncle. But he escaped and started his own design firm, married the girl of his dreams, and they have a baby named after Avery’s grandpa Joe, who has taught his namesake wayyy worse words than piss.
“Nah, I’m fucked. Royally fucked.” They don’t deserve to get hit full force by my ugly attitude, but I’ve been holding it inside for so long that Winston’s kind question pops the top and all my anger rushes out like a beer shotgun. “But not as bad as the guys. Did you know Alan’s wife is expecting again?”
Crack. Crack. Crack.
I keep shooting as I wait for his answer.