Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Sure.”
“No.” He reaches over and steals a pancake from the griddle before it’s even done cooking, teeth tearing into it. “I don’t think I’m a douche—fuck, this is hot!”
“Serves you right for stealing that before I’m ready to serve it!”
Duke waves the pancake in my direction; it flops between us. “Just because I don’t sugarcoat things and don’t mince words—and don’t have a tolerance for snowflakes—doesn’t make me a douche. It makes me a man who values his time.”
I mull that over in my mind. “So you’re rude to save time?”
He nods, seemingly proud that I got his gist. “Exactly.”
Oh, brother.
“What’s it like when you’re not rude?”
Duke stares me down, biting into the pancake. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—you broke into my house, you eat things that aren’t yours.” I blankly stare at the pancake in his hand. “You barged into my room last night.”
He shifts on his heels. “I’m fun. What in tarnation are you tawkin’ ’bout?”
What in tarnation are you tawkin’ ’bout.
I stifle my laughter. He sounds like a cowboy from a Wild West movie set in the sixties.
“I’m just saying—you’re like a bull in a boutique.”
Duke studies me, reaching around for another pancake. He folds it and puts the entire thing in his mouth.
“Don’t you want butter and syrup?”
He shakes his head. “Too much sugar.”
Rolling my eyes, I fetch myself a plate and put two pancakes on it. I melt butter on the top and between the pancakes, then add a little syrup. Taking my plate to the table, I sit facing the backyard so I can watch the birds in the trees and the sun rising further up into the sky.
With every bite I put in my mouth and savor on my tongue, I get more lost in thought. What am I wearing tonight? What time should I leave for the city? It’s Saturday, so hopefully, there won’t be much traffic—and I probably won’t drink, so I don’t have to take a cab or get a ride.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it to see a notification: Brian has sent you a message!
This cheers me up considerably, not that I was in a foul mood.
Brian: I was thinking of coming closer to you—see my old stomping grounds, maybe drive past the old high school before drinks haha. Want to meet at Wylee’s on the Lake?
Wylee’s on the Lake is a localish bar and grill best known for its fried chicken and Friday Fish Frys.
Er.
Great.
At least it will only take me ten minutes to get there.
And considering it’s a bar and grill, and I’ll probably stink by the time we’re done, I won’t have to dress up.
Kind of a bummer, but it is what it is. I manifested Brian taking more of the lead, and this is what I get.
Me: Sure, Wylee’s works. Haven’t been there in ages.
For a reason.
Brian: Cool. How far is it from your place?
Uh.
Not sure how to answer that—he’s not a random stranger, but it’s been years since I’ve seen him, and even back in high school it’s not as if we hung out together. Not sure if I want to give him my location, ha.
Me: Closer than downtown that’s for sure.
There’s a brief pause between his messages before the next one pops up.
Brian: Cool. See you then.
“A wordsmith he is not,” I mutter.
Unfortunately, Duke is still hovering over me, listening. “What was that now?”
“Nothing.”
“Were you just on the dating app?”
I turn to look at him, pancakes half in my mouth. “Are you looking at my phone over my shoulder?”
“It’s a bright red app—it isn’t hard to miss.”
He’s not wrong, but that is hardly the point, is it? “That was Brian confirming our date tonight. He’s meeting me in town instead of in the city like a gentleman.”
Duke rolls his eyes, nicking food from my plate. “What’s with the change of heart?”
“He said he wanted to see his old stomping grounds, maybe even drive past the high school.”
“He’s so full of shit.”
Now I turn to completely face him, spinning in my chair, breakfast forgotten. He has managed to ruin my morning!
“Here we go with your conspiracy theories about how he’s a fuck boy.”
He reaches over and takes my entire plate; no manner, just gluttony. “Well, isn’t he?”
“No!”
“Where’re you goin’ on your date?”
“A place called Wylee’s.”
“Wylee’s?” He sets the plate down, licks the syrup off his fingers he JUST told me he didn’t want to eat because it had too much sugar, and picks his phone up off the counter to tap out a search. “Wylee’s sells broasted chicken.”
“So?”
Duke laughs, loud and deep. “You’re meetin’ at a bar with a dart league on Tuesdays and a bags league on the weekends.”
“So?”
“Not to mention, this place is seven point three miles from here.”
I sigh. “So?”
What’s his point?
“He thinks if he comes closer to your place, you’ll bring him home, and he’ll get to fuck you.”