Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
I turned accusing eyes on Wade. “You excluded your own sister?”
“I never excluded anyone,” Wade said defensively, looking vaguely pissed about the entire situation. “I didn’t know she wanted to be a part of it. I didn’t know you wanted to be a part of it.”
I believed him since, based on what he’d said the other night, he didn’t even want to be a part of it. But we did.
“But we do,” Bernie said, staring me down and unknowingly echoing my thoughts.
“Yes, we do.”
“Well, there’s no hope for it now, is there?” Wade said in resignation beside us. “If memory serves, whenever you two decided to tag-team on a thing, nothing could get in your way.”
Bernie blew out a breath, a grin starting to emerge when she realized I was on her side. “So, if they want the car…?”
“They’ll be getting two drivers and Chick, who’ll be rooting for us on the sidelines.”
“The guy you’re moving in wi—” Wade stopped and glanced at his sister. “The guy coming to stay with you wants to join the team too?”
“Don’t worry, he doesn’t drive. He only wants to participate and cheer us on. And write about it.” And hide from a lovelorn wrestler.
“Chick?” Bernie asked thoughtfully. “That’s the screenwriter, right? He wrote Mutant Bounty, didn’t he? Phoebe made me watch it once.”
“Lord love a fucking duck,” Wade muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kingston wants to film it. Your sci-fi buddy wants to write about it.”
Kingston wanted to film it? This was the first I’d heard of it.
Bernie’s grin was devilish. “Gene’s going to be impossible to live with now. He’ll start thinking he’s the chosen one. The Luke Skywalker of Lemons.”
I chuckled. “Lemons in Space, starring Ham Never-Solo.”
We were still laughing at that when Rick joined us with his signature scowl. “Coming?”
I followed the three of them into my sister’s house. The living room was spotless and elegant and not covered in dog hair, which meant the cleaning service must have shown up before we did. Morgan had great taste in artwork and furniture, but that was where her forays into domestic goddessing ended. At this point in her life, she refused to clean and she barely cooked.
Secretly, I always wondered if her family potlucks were her way to get out of frozen dinners or her Taco Tuesday offering, which was her go-to meal, no matter what day of the week it landed on.
She’d purchased a table precisely for these dinners. A long, beautiful rustic piece that looked like it would be at home in a garden in Tuscany. It was my favorite piece of furniture in her house. It felt welcoming. Warm. The whole room did. It was almost bigger than the living room, connected as it was to the open kitchen. The walls were tastefully decorated with artistic friends-and-family pics. One of Gene’s family. One of Morgan’s father and our mother. The wedding. Morgan and me as children. The Hudsons made several appearances, but the third wall—the travel wall—was by far the most colorful and impressive.
It was funny that the one Retta who’d wanted to put down roots had seen more of the world than the other two combined. Saving for vacations versus life on the road. A pantsing-versus-plotting debate for the ages.
I saw Morgan walking swiftly from the living room to the kitchen. “I’m feeding the dogs and then we can eat,” she said, looking me over and giving me a quick hug. “You look good, August.”
She looked frazzled and tired, but still Morgan. “You too.”
The rest of the room was currently crowded with people and conversations, so I snuck in with my bag and searched for the space to set it down.
“Place your offerings on the altar,” Phoebe joked, holding her bulging stomach with one hand and gesturing to the takeout-laden table with the other. “I can’t eat any of it, but I can live vicariously.”
“Are you supposed to be out of bed, young lady?” I asked, noticing as I always did, that she was a softer version of her mother. Her dark hair bounced at her shoulders instead of being confined to a braid that arrowed to her waist. And her style was more cotton casual than leather troublemaker, but they had the same smile. The same wide streak of stubborn with a helping of something to prove.
“I’m not on bed rest, just voluntarily taking it easy. But I wasn’t about to miss the cruise recap.” When Wade quietly set a cushion on the chair behind her, she lowered herself onto the seat. “Thank you. Sit next to me, Auntie. I need bar gossip.”
Wade met my gaze over her head, his brimming with a heat and frustration that I understood. I’d wanted to touch him since I got here, but that would be a bad idea. This dinner was already going to be uncomfortable enough as it was. Though not for the usual reasons, I thought as Bernie took the empty seat on my other side and sent me a conspiratorial grin.