Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 73824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
He grinned cheekily at me.
“Sometimes more,” he said, stuffing the things back into his pocket.
Except for the flashlight which he clipped to the outside of his shirt.
Then he stooped down, picked the gun up, and sat down on the bed to re-attach it to his ankle.
“How is that comfortable?” I asked.
I’d tried working out with leg weights when I gained twenty pounds, after I was stood up for my senior prom, and I’d been so exhausted after wearing them that I literally had to stop on day four. They were only six pounds each, but they made a world of difference in your everyday activity.
I knew for a fact that the gun he carried on his ankle was over five pounds.
“You get used to it. Now it’s like it’s not even there. It’s when I’m not wearing it that I get uncomfortable,” he admitted.
I smiled. “That’s probably because one of your legs is bigger than the other after carrying that gun around so much. It doesn’t know what to do with the extra weight not being there.”
He gave me a droll look.
“One of my legs is not bigger than the other. It’s only four and a half pounds. Not even a big enough difference for me to even feel it,” he said, standing up and walking to me.
I held my ground, watching as he made it to within inches of me before he lowered his head and gave me a soft kiss on the mouth.
“Come over for dinner tomorrow?” He asked, trying not to sound hopeful.
I nodded. “Yeah. What time do you want me to be there?”
“Six. Reagan Rose Alvarez gets cranky if we wait until seven. So make sure you’re there early,” he smiled. “I have to work tomorrow, but I’ll be there in time to bring dinner home.”
“Do you want me to make dinner and bring it?” I asked.
I liked cooking.
In fact, I loved it.
I wasn’t a big out to eat type of person.
I didn’t see the point. Especially when home cooked meals were not only healthier, but also yummier.
“You cook?” He asked in awe.
I nodded. “Yeah, doesn’t everybody?”
“Sure,” he said slowly. “Not everybody cooks well, though. Which one are you?”
I winked. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see. Is there anything your Reagan won’t eat?”
He shook his head.
“’Allergic’,” he said making air quotes. “To vegetables.”
I laughed. “Aren’t all kids allergic to those?”
He shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of cauliflower and onions, but as long as it’s hidden in something good, I won’t have a problem stomaching it.”
I gave him a thumbs up and started out of my bedroom and to the kitchen.
“I made these muffins this morning,” I said gathering them up. “You can have them and tell me what you think,” I said, stuffing them into a Ziplock bag and tossing them to him.
He caught them out of the air and tucked them underneath his arm before cornering me against the counter.
“See you tomorrow,” he said against my lips.
I kissed him hard, and then pulled back. “Tomorrow.”
Chapter 8
I may not voice my opinion often, but when I do you need to shut your filthy, donkey humping mouth and listen to what I have to say.
-Word of advice
Bennett
“What are you eating?” Michael asked as he dropped down into the car next to me.
“Muffins,” I said around a large bite, bits and pieces of the sweetest, most awesome and tastiest thing that had ever graced my taste buds, flying out.
“Let me have one,” he said holding out his hand.
I reached into my pack and offered him my second to last one.
I’d had to ration myself last night so I could eat them for breakfast this morning…and man was it hard.
He took it, peeled the paper off of it, and sank his teeth into it.
“Oh, my God,” he said in awe. “What the fuck is this and where can I get more?”
His eyes moved to the last muffin in the bag, and I held it out with a sigh.
It was probably a good thing that he came when he did, or I would’ve consumed all fourteen of those bastards.
Now I only had twelve to work off at the gym later.
“Lennox made them,” I informed him as I popped the last bite into my mouth and wiped the crumbs from my uniformed shirt. “She’s making me dinner tonight, too. If it’s anything like these muffins, I’ll be whisking her off to Vegas this weekend and coming back with a wife who’ll cook for me every night of the week and serve me breakfast in bed.”
He snorted. “Let me know how that goes. I met that girl, and I highly doubt she’d allow you to do anything that had to do with Vegas. Not to mention her parents are loaded, and probably have a million and a half guests they’d like to invite to your wedding.”
I raised my brow at him.
“How do you know they’re loaded?” I asked.
He pointed to the windshield, and I turned to survey the area.
“Look at that billboard,” he ordered.
I skipped past the one that let me know Cracker Barrel was at Exit 596, and went to the next one that was a little further away.
“Brock Jane, M.D,” I read. “So what?”
“That’s your girl’s daddy. He’s the head trauma surgeon at Good Shepherd and his wife is a pediatric surgeon. Let’s just say that they’re loaded, if you catch my drift,” Michael said, reaching into the bag for the second muffin.
I’d known that she was well off, but I guess I didn’t realize how well off.
“How do you know who they are?” I asked.
“My father’s a doctor at the hospital, too. My mom’s a nurse. My aunt’s a nurse. My sister’s a nurse. Literally, I know everybody at that hospital,” he told me. “Not to mention that my ex works there, too.”
That was the most I’d heard about Michael’s life than the entirety of the time I’d known him.
Michael was a really good friend, and a great man. He was secretive, though. At least when it came to his personal life.