Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
I blink. The nanny we had prior was helpful, but not this helpful. “Okay. Great. Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Dinner should be ready in half an hour or so.”
Maren gives me a thumbs up, smiling when she sees Katie running after me in just her Peppa Pig underwear. “What can I help with?”
Exactly the question I always ask when I’m at someone’s house for a meal. Maren’s mama raised her right.
My need for alcohol becomes acute.
“You and Katie keep doing what you’re doing.”
I don’t usually drink whiskey during the week. But I’m suddenly craving it, so I grab a bottle of Jack Daniels from my bar, maple syrup, and a couple of lemons from the fridge, and mix up a very strong whiskey sour.
There’s still plenty left in the shaker after I pour myself a glass. I glance at Maren.
Weird if I offer her a drink? Weird if I don’t? I feel like she could use a cocktail too. What she said about school has me thinking she’s stressed out.
And yeah, drinking whiskey alone feels fucking depressing.
I hold up the shaker. “Can I pour you a cocktail, Karen?”
Maren laughs, the sound happy and real, and I have to gulp my own drink in an attempt to ignore the way my dick twitches.
“Well, I’m working right now, so . . .”
“You can keep working after one drink. If you want a drink, of course. I love my little koala more than life itself, but the days are long. Cocktail hour is . . . important.”
Maren bites her lip. I think of Jesus. Spreadsheets. Surfing in December.
“You sure you don’t mind?” she asks.
“Not at all.”
“Okay. Then yes, I’d love one. Thank you.”
I hate that she sounds surprised. If I had to guess, a girl this gorgeous and outgoing would have guys buying her drinks left and right. Does she not get out enough? Last guy she was with not treat her right?
Why the fuck do I care?
I don’t. Just want her to feel comfortable here is all.
“Whiskey sour.” I pour her what’s left in the shaker. “Fair warning, I make ’em strong.”
Maren crosses into the kitchen. Hips and shoulders rolling in this totally unself-conscious, totally adorable way that makes my skin feel a size too tight. “Exactly how I like it. I lost my sweet tooth somewhere in college, so I prefer strong over sweet.”
I avoid her eyes when I hand her the glass. She sips. Laughs a little as she covers her mouth with the back of her hand, revealing a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. Ardently.
“That you?” I ask.
She blinks. “What?”
“Ardent. Is that you?”
Indents appear between her eyebrows. “It’s Jane Austen. Mr. Darcy confessing his secret love for Lizzie Bennett in Pride and Prejudice.”
“Austen’s words. Your tattoo.”
“So your question is . . .”
“Are you ardent? In what you do?”
She sips again. This time, she doesn’t wince. “I’d like to think so, yeah. There’s honor in that kind of feeling. Like, you’re either in love with something with every square inch of your being, or you don’t waste your time on it at all.”
Our eyes lock. The liquor lights up my bloodstream, making me just careless enough to hold her gaze for a full beat. The space between us crackles.
This weird attraction—the understanding between us that’s appeared suddenly, out of nowhere—it’s throwing me for a loop.
I sip my drink. I should back off.
Instead, I lean in. “So do you love my poison whiskey sour with every inch of your being, or not?”
Another laugh. It hits me that I’m probably flirting with her.
When was the last time I flirted outside of a bar?
When was the last time I felt this comfortable around a woman this quickly? I don’t know Maren and she doesn’t know me. But here we are, laughing in my kitchen over cocktails.
“It is strong,” she says.
“Here.” I grab a measuring cup of leftover lemon juice. “You don’t like sweet, but the sour takes the edge off the liquor.”
She holds out her glass and lets me pour in some juice. I watch her stir it with her finger, blood thumping when she sticks the knuckle of that finger in her mouth and sucks. “Better. That’s actually really delicious—refreshing. Thank you.”
Katie trots into the kitchen. “Can I have some, Daddy?”
“How about some water instead?” Maren grabs Katie’s water bottle off the counter and hands it to her. “Big sip. Then we’ll learn the rest of our routine.” She wags her eyebrows. “There’s flying in this part.”
“Flying?” my daughter and I ask in unison.
Maren nods. “It’s when cheerleaders get tossed into the air. I was a flyer.”
Considering her size, it makes sense. Sounds like she was—is—an incredible athlete.
I turn on the oven and prep dinner. It ain’t fancy—I only have time to go all-out on the weekends—but it is tasty and nutritious. Also happens to be one of Katie’s favorites: roasted shrimp and broccoli, with a side of buttery rice.