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)
“We’ve got an injured staffer.” Rhy pushed his sleeves up his massive arms. “Cut forehead.”
What was he telling me this for? I only knew one way to treat people—like crap.
“Do they need medical attention?” I spooned a handful of sauce from a pan, bringing it to my lips. “Too much rosemary,” I chided my chef de partie.
“Unsure.” Rhy scratched his neck. “Wanna come see?”
“Do I look like a doctor? Ask them,” I said slowly. “Or better yet, call an ambulance. We don’t need another Usher lawsuit.”
“First of all—OSHA. Second, I wanted you to know because—”
“Unless they bled into someone’s plate and a health inspector just walked in to witness it, I really don’t see—”
“It’s Cal,” he cut into my words, face thunderous. “Cal is injured.”
All the blood drained from my face. It rushed straight to my feet, which started moving. Running. I pushed Rhyland out of the way. He collapsed against metal shelves laden with bowls and whisks. The contents spilled over the floor with noisy clanks. I stormed the dining area, whipping my head, looking for her through the white-hot panic clouding my eyesight.
How had she cut her forehead? What the hell had she done now? Bang her head against a steak knife as a party trick? Had someone hurt her? A man?
Where the hell is she?
“I took her to the upstairs office to avoid a commotion.” Rhy appeared by my side, rubbing the back of his head with an accusatory glare. “Zeta is taking care of her. She dropped by with some lasagna for your dinner.”
Only my mother could pop into a three-Michelin-starred restaurant to deliver her chef son a meal he probably had to microwave.
I took the stairs three at a time, Rhy at my heels.
“How is she doing?” I was foaming at the mouth. Now was a good time to admit to myself that I did give a shit. Lots of shits, if I was being honest. An entire fucking sewer.
“Your mom or Calla?”
I shot him a glare behind my shoulder. He grinned. “Pretty good.” He redid his man-bun as he took the steps. “The cut looks kinda nasty, though.”
“Your face looks nasty.”
“Supremely mature. Also a bit rich, coming from you right now. I could fill up an entire Olympic pool with your sweat. Chill the fuck out.”
“It’s hot in the kitchen.” Had we always had five thousand stairs?
“You’re used to the kitchen heat. It’s the Cal heat that throws you off-balance. Shit,” he snorted out. “You’re worried, aren’t you? I’ve never seen you this way before.”
I slapped the door open so hard the handle made a dent as it slammed into the wall. I didn’t know what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t Cal, resting on the upholstered brown leather couch next to my desk with her head propped against the armrest, my mother sitting on a chair next to her, pressing napkins to her forehead. The napkins were red as fine wine. Naturally, it didn’t stop Cal from making a long, pointless speech.
“…all I’m saying is that objections at weddings exist solely to make the lives of overworked scriptwriters easier. Like, when did anyone ever oppose a wedding in real life? Also, the legalities of a marriage are established when you apply for a wedding license. Look, don’t get me wrong, the While You Were Sleeping objection scene was epic, no complaints here, but when you think about it—”
“You’re bleeding.” I rushed to her side and fell onto my knees by the couch, fingering the batch of sticky napkins on her forehead. She looked sleepy and beautiful and fuck, that was another reason I didn’t do relationships. Imagine caring for someone, then letting them wander the world, exposed to all kinds of shit? This girl was prone to dying from her klutziness. That she had lived this long was a miracle.
Cal’s enormous, cloudless-sky eyes peered back at me, soot-lashed and innocent.
“Duh. I was there when it happened.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or berate her. “Wow. You’re really pretty.” She touched my cheek dazedly. “I mean, you’re always pretty, but today you are extra pretty. Extraprettinery.”
Shit. I hoped she didn’t have a concussion.
“Does it hurt?” I croaked. Since when was I croaking? I was a grunter, a groaner, a bellower, sometimes. Not a croaker.
“Not really. But I think I’m getting a little woozy.”
“You’re anemic.” Oops. Was not supposed to know that.
“I am!” she said brightly. “Oh, that reminds me, I need to refill my iron prescription. I haven’t done that”—she scrunched her forehead, and the bleeding started again—“in three years or so. How’d you know anyway?”
She had mentioned it once during a sleepover at Dylan’s when she was fifteen. That was why I’d kept all those Oh Henry! bars everywhere. She was bound to faint if she didn’t take care of herself.