Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141251 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141251 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Right, that’s it.” I pick up an egg and Sammy squeals.
"You wouldn't." She gasps.
“Oh… I think I would.” I crack it over her head and it drips down her face.
“Ahh!” she screeches. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Believe it, sister.”
She picks up and egg and pelts it at me, smashing it straight into my chest.
“No,” Sammy yells excitedly, and we both turn to him.
“Get him,” I say.
“Ohhhh!” Sammy squeals, but before he can run, Willow cracks an egg over his head. Then she picks up a handful of flour and throws it at me, and it sticks to the egg and covers the floor.
“That’s it,” I cry. “It’s war.” I pick up another egg and pull my arm back to hurl it at her.
Ding dong.
We all freeze on the spot and turn towards the sound of the doorbell. “Who’s that?” I whisper.
Sammy jumps down and runs to the window to look out. “Grandma!”
“What?”
“Grandma’s here.”
“Shit,” Willow cries.
“Oh no.” I bounce on the spot in a panic and the doorbell rings again right before the front door opens. Shit, we left it unlocked.
“Hello?” Their grandma calls.
The three of us go into overdrive as we quickly try to wipe up the flour from the floor, but Grandma appears before we can dispose of the evidence.
Her face falls as she walks into the room.
“Why…?” Her voice trails off as she looks around. “What on earth is going on here?”
I look around at the mess. “We’re cooking.” I wince.
She’s a very stylish and attractive woman, in her late fifties or early sixties at the most. She’s wearing a tight black woolen dress, and in low black heels. Her hair is styled in a perfect blonde bob, and she is wearing a coral color lipstick to compliment her outfit.
She has money. It’s blatantly obvious.
The shock on her face is priceless, and I bite my bottom lip nervously. "I'm Brielle," I tell her with a smile. I put my hand out but realize it's covered in flour and dough. "I would shake your hand, but..." I show her my palm.
“I’m Frances.” She frowns, and then turns her attention to the children. “Hello, dears. I thought I would come and check on you, what with your father being away.”
The children both smile cheekily.
She looks around and picks a piece of eggshell out of Sammy’s hair.
Oh hell, what must this look like? We all have eggs smashed over our heads and chests, and I am completely white-faced from the flour.
“This is most unexpected,” she mutters, almost to herself.
“We’re cooking,” Willow offers as an excuse. “And….” She pauses as she tries to think of a reason. “The eggs slipped out of our hands.”
“Slippery little suckers,” Sammy adds.
I laugh because that story is just ridiculous. “I’m sorry, but you’ve caught us in the middle of a good old fashioned food fight.”
Frances smiles awkwardly. “So I see.” She looks me up and down. “So, you’re Miss Brielle?”
“Yes.” I smile as I dust some flour from my shirt. “Nice to meet you.”
Her eyes dance with delight. “Julian said you were very different. Now I see why.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Oh, kids, haven’t I had a dreadful first week? I’ve made every mistake possible.”
The kids both nod with enthusiasm.
“She even ran Dad over in a golf cart,” Sammy blurts out.
“Dear, God.” She puts her hand to her chest. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” Willow answers. “He sulked all night over it.”
Frances laughs, and I get the feeling that I’m going to like this woman.
“We’re practicing making fresh pasta so that Willow can cook dinner for her father on Sunday night,” I say.
“Really?” She looks between the two of us, impressed.
“You should come over,” I say. “The more the merrier. Willow is a fantastic cook.”
“I haven’t cooked anything yet,” Willow interrupts.
“I know, but you’re going to be a fantastic cook when I finish with you.”
Frances beams. “Thank you for the invitation. I’d be delighted.”
She looks back at the door. “Don’t let me hold up your fun. I’ll get going.”
We all follow her and she turns back. “What time is dinner on Sunday night, Will?”
Willow looks to me for guidance.
“What time, pumpkin?” I whisper. “You pick.”
“About six?” Willow shrugs.
Frances smiles and rubs her arm. “Lovely, see you at six, darling.” She walks out the door and calls over her shoulder. “Have fun. I wouldn’t want to be the one cleaning that floor.”
We all scowl at the thought of having to do it ourselves.
“Let’s just clean up first and we can start again.” I sigh.
With a roll of their eyes, they both follow me back to the battle zone.
This place is trashed.
It’s now 11:00 p.m. and I’m back in bed, reading. The room is dark, lit only by my bedside lamp. I didn’t hear from Mr. Masters today but I know he called the children. I heard him on the phone to Willow earlier. Part of me is a little disappointed he didn’t call me. God knows why. I blow out a deep breath and shuffle around on the bed, annoyed at myself.