Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Row’s eyes flicked over my frame briefly. He pushed another piece of unidentified food into his mouth. “You changed your hair color.”
“Just the tips.” I felt myself blushing and was surprised that I did. Yes, I’d had a crush on him when I was a teenager, but I was over him. I’d only thought about him whenever he popped up on my TV screen or in glossy magazine covers. “Indigo. It represents sadness and mourning.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t care,” I fired back. “You won’t offend me with your offhanded attitude. I’m not one of your TV protégées.”
“If I stop answering you, will you go away?” He scrubbed his jaw with a frown.
I pressed a hand to my chest. “You wound me, Ambrose. I thought we could catch up.”
He said nothing, piling more food onto his already overflowing plate. Over the years, Row had opened and helmed upscale restaurants across Europe that were booked six months in advance, but that didn’t make him a food snob. He still liked mac-and-cheese casseroles and his momma’s famous lasagna.
Me? I chose my meals like I chose my paths in life—badly. Junk seemed to be the recurring theme in both of those fields, and I always ended up feeling like crap.
“I pick the color by my mood,” I heard myself drone on, even though Row certainly wasn’t keen for me to elaborate. “So, before Dad died, the tips were yellow. I was feeling kind of confident. Brave about the week ahead. I thought I had a few more days with him.”
He harrumphed to show me that he had heard me but offered no words of consolation. Wetting my lower lip, I said, “You know, I will be in town for a while…”
“Not interested,” he quipped, tone wry.
“Cocky much? I was going to say I’d really like to reconnect with Dylan.”
“You do? Huh, the feeling doesn’t seem to be mutual.” He brought a piece of Walmart pie to his lips, chewing slowly. If he found the flavor lacking, he didn’t show it. He stared at me indifferently. “She despises you.”
All thanks to you, slimeball.
Fine, that wasn’t fair. I took full responsibility for what happened. I’d played that night hundreds of times in my head over the past few years, and the only excuse I could come up with was a moment of sheer madness. It was like gambling away your entire life savings at the casino.
“She might forgive me.” I slammed a bread roll onto my plate.
“I might become a space cowboy.”
“No, you won’t.”
“My chances are better than yours, though,” he replied flippantly, popping a piece of cheese between his lips. “If Dylan’s forgiveness is what you’re after.”
“You seem to be taking a lot of pleasure in my misery over my fallout with your sister.” I squinted at him.
“A lot? No. A very modest amount? Sure, I’ll stand behind that.”
Lyle and Randy—the owner of the local food mart—whooshed past us in the cluttered living room, cutting the line to the quiches. Randy sent Row a fuming glare that concentrated enough hostility to fuel a nuclear bomb, baring his teeth at him.
“Hey, Casablancas. Come to ruin another fine piece of this small town?” he all but spat at Row’s feet as we stood on the buffet-style line along a table.
Whoa. What the hell? Row was royalty in this place. Staindrop’s golden boy. He had been handled with adoration and respect before he’d gone on to become the American Alain Ducasse. His shitty attitude added to his mysterious aura and bad-boy persona.
“I think I’m going to spare her.” Row dunked a sponge cake in an unidentifiable syrup, sniffing it before tossing it into his mouth. “Not my type and talks a mile a minute.”
Too stunned to be properly offended, all I could do was stare at him, jaw on the floor.
“I wasn’t talkin’ about Calla. I was talking about this house.” Randy balled his free fist, taking a step in Row’s direction.
“Talk all you want about either. As always, no one’s listening.” Row smirked defiantly.
Randy shoved his plate in Lyle’s chest, stepping into Row’s vicinity with his fist raised above his shoulder. “You got somethin’ to say to me, Chef?”
“Yeah, actually.” Row ate the rest of the distance between them, dropping his plate at the table with a loud clank. “Eat. Shit.”
Gasps erupted from every corner of the room. Whispers and loud shrieks ensued. And poor Lyle, who still looked only half-recovered from our Meat Loaf conversation, pushed Randy to the other side of the room, shoving at his chest like he was breaking up a bar fight.
“Knock it off and show some respect to Artem. Now’s not the time to discuss such things,” Lyle hushed his friend, and the two were immediately swallowed by a human frock of gossipers. Everybody’s eyes hung on Row’s face, and nobody came to his defense.