Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Holidays hadn’t been much since my mom passed. There was hardly ever any money for nice gifts, and while I did always try to decorate, it just never quite had the right feel.
I had already ordered an artificial tree—because research told me that real trees were even more tempting for cats—and lights and ornaments.
I was trying to figure out the perfect gifts for all his loved ones. And I had maybe already started collecting things for the kids—tucked away in a closet upstairs so they didn’t see them when they came to visit. Which they did frequently. I’d unofficially signed up as the family babysitter, and I’d been loving every minute of it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if, by next Christmas, Emilio and I might have a baby of our own. Or at least one on the way.
Six months had passed in a blink.
And I was pretty sure I could speak for the both of us in saying we were in this. Ready to put down roots and let them grow deep.
The beautiful ring on my left hand was proof of that.
The second that thing was spotted on my finger, the news had spread like wildfire through the moms and aunts and sisters. And pretty soon, the plans were underway for the event. Which, it seemed, was going to have no fewer than three-hundred people at. And that wasn’t even including the kids. Who I did want to invite, but maybe with the condition that we hire babysitters and let them have their own kid fun while the adults had adult fun.
“Oh, you’re going to be such a good mom,” Emilio’s mom had said to me, squeezing my face, when I’d suggested that.
I was just about to go into the kitchen to check on the minestrone soup I had in the slow cooker. Emilio and I were having a soup, salad, and breadsticks night. And we were going to eat it while watching a movie.
It sounded like the ideal night, in my humble opinion.
But a knock at the front door had me freezing halfway down the hallway, turning with a tension building in my body.
Which was… weird.
There were drop-ins all the time. Hell, it was lunchtime. That usually meant that Ant was showing up, begging for some of last night’s leftovers to eat.
Still, there was the strange discomfort as I turned.
But there was a security system on the door. A gun hidden in the wall behind a picture of a duck that I’d found in a thrift store. It was a little quirky, given the more classic decor we had going on, but I loved it. If the security system and the gun weren’t enough, Lorenzo was four doors down with at least one guard outside his home at all times.
I was as safe as I could possibly be.
With that, I walked toward the door, seeing the outline of a man, but the way the glass was cut on the door, it kind of obscured features, so it wasn’t until I was sliding the lock, and pulling open the door.
“Hey, Av.”
“Cage?” I gasped, looking at the man in front of me.
He looked so different.
Healthy.
The last time I’d seen him, there’d been an ashen look to his face, making the lovely olive tone of his skin fade away, and giving him a sickly look.
His hair had been too long and greasy back then, but now it was cut short, shaped up, clean.
His eyes that I’d gotten so used to seeing bleary or bloodshot were clear, making the bright brown with hints of gold really shine through.
He’d put on weight as well. Good weight. His clothes had been hanging off his skeletal frame before. But now he looked like he’d bulked up, had been hitting the gym, and had found his way to a tailor. Because he had on an expertly cut dark gray suit with a black shirt under.
“Holy shit, Cage,” I said, shaking my head at him.
“That’s the sister I know,” he said, smiling at me. “Glad to see the rich bitch life hasn’t changed you,” he said.
“How are you?” I asked. “You seem well.”
“I am. I can’t say I had much of a choice in the matter. Renzo can be a ruthless fuck when he wants to be.”
“Which is all the time?” I asked, getting a smirk out of him.
“Pretty much. You pissed at me?” he asked.
“Pissed? No,” I said. Then, remembering my manners, I moved out of the way. “Come in,” I said, waiting for him to do so.
“Heard you decorated this place.”
“It had been my job at first,” I said, nodding.
“What I’m hearing is… you owe this life to me and my fuck-ups.”
“I guess that’s true,” I agreed. “We both seemed to come out on top after all of this.”
“Can we sit?” he asked, waving toward the dining room.