Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
The constant stream of pictures that made me smile each time they arrived stopped coming in around four. I called at five-thirty to check in, only to be greeted by music blasting in the background and to find out that they were making dinner at home. For the two seconds I got Winter on the phone, I could hear the happiness in her voice, and there wasn’t even a question asked about when I would get home. Normally, that would be the first question out of her mouth. Then again, Winter has never done much more than go to the grocery store with Karen, and I’m pretty sure Karen would not agree to listening to music at dance-club level while cooking—or any time, for that matter. So Winter was on cloud nine.
After I hung up with them, I called back around seven to remind Winter to brush her teeth, but she already had and was at that point hanging on the couch with Emma, watching Tangled, one of her favorite Disney movies. At eight-thirty, Emma sent a text to let me know Winter was in bed and asleep, which was surprising, since on weekends she usually attempts to stay up as late as she can and is not in bed until closer to ten. Then again, she had a full day and was likely exhausted.
“Miles.” Hearing my name called from a sleepy-sounding Emma, I snap out of my thoughts and find her pushing to sit up as she looks around, as if in a daze. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”
“You had a long day.”
“The best day,” she corrects with a smile aimed at me. Fuck she’s beautiful. Tucking a thick chunk of hair behind her ear her gaze locks on mine. “How was your day?” she asks softly, tipping her head to the side and studying me.
“Shitty,” I mutter, and her face instantly goes soft, which is fascinating to watch.
“I’m sorry. Do you wanna talk about it?” She stands, taking the blanket with her.
“No.” The response is instant and maybe even spoken a little harshly, but then again, I would never subject her or anyone other than my brother to the shit I have to deal with while working a case. Not that ignorance is bliss, but sometimes it’s better for people to believe murders are solved as quickly and efficiently as they are on TV. That there is no waiting period, no backup at the labs, no dealing with jurisdictions or any other bullshit.
“Okay,” she says softly, tossing the blanket she folded to the arm of the couch, then turns toward me and wraps her arms around her middle. “Did you eat?”
“This afternoon.”
Without a word, she lets her arms fall to her sides and walks past me toward the kitchen. I follow, and she pops open the microwave, pulling out a plate covered with foil.
“We made lasagna.”
“You made lasagna?”
“Yeah.” She puts the now uncovered plate back in the microwave and sets the timer for a minute and a half. “It’s not the best I’ve ever made, but it’s not bad.” Her eyes come to me as she opens the fridge. “Do you want salad or green beans?”
“Salad.” With a nod, she takes a bowl from the fridge and places it on the counter. “You don’t have to feed me, Em.”
“I know,” she says simply, moving to the cupboard to get a smaller bowl.
I watch her for a minute as she moves around the kitchen with ease, then drag my eyes off her. “How was Winter today?”
“Perfect,” is her response as I go to the fridge and pull down a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet above it. “Don’t be surprised if she asks you for a kangaroo in the morning. We must have spent an hour in their enclosure, and the only reason it wasn’t longer is because I bribed her with cotton candy so she would leave.”
I pour two fingers of Scotch in a glass while smiling, then look up to find her watching me with a look on her face I can’t decipher. “Do you want a drink?”
“No thanks,” she says quietly, turning to the microwave that has begun to beep. I watch her as she takes the plate out and places it on the island, then grabs a fork from the silverware drawer. “My dad drank Scotch. When I was sixteen, I had friends over for a sleepover, and we all decided we wanted to try drinking.” She walks the plate and the bowl of salad over to where I’m standing.
“Ouch,” I mutter.
“You can say that again.” She grins turning her back to the island and jumping up, placing her bottom on the counter next to where I’m standing. “The three of us spent the night puking our guts out, which was one of the most horrific experiences of my life.”