Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Is there red meat in the casserole?” he asks, pulling a glass bottle of water from the fridge.
“Turkey sausage, per Mrs. Morrison’s request.”
“I’ll take my usual, Alice. Thanks.” He saunters out of the kitchen.
I sigh, shutting off the water and drying my hands before pulling a steak wrapped in butcher paper from the fridge. As soon as I have it seasoned and in the hot cast-iron skillet to sear, I serve Mr. Morrison his coffee.
“Murphy!” Blair squeals playfully from the other side of the house.
Mr. Morrison rolls his eyes, lifting his cup of coffee to his lips as I set a fork and steak knife on a cloth napkin next to his saucer. “How would you feel about staying in the main house this summer so we can kick those two out into the guesthouse?”
“Oooh … a promotion already?”
He shakes his head. “I’m kidding. Sort of.”
I return a polite grin before heading back to the kitchen to turn the steak. After it’s flipped, I trim the flowers I cut from the bed on the south side of the house and arrange them into a vase for the dining room table, anything to keep from thinking about Murphy playfully doing god knows what to his future wife.
“Oh, wow. You work on Sundays?” Blair asks, tightening the sash on her white robe, towel wrapped around her head.
“Good morning. And yes, I work on Sundays. Can I get you coffee?”
“I’ll make it. You don’t know how I like it.” She reaches for a mug.
“Splash of soy milk, dash of cinnamon.” I smile, wiping my hands on a towel.
Blair’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows lift a fraction. “My mom prepared you.”
“Yes, Miss Morrison.”
“Please,” she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, “don’t call me Miss Morrison. My name is Blair. I’ll be a Paddon soon. And I can get my own coffee.” She pours the coffee into her cup and retrieves the soy milk from the fridge, so I transfer Hunter’s steak to the lower oven and check on the casserole in the top oven.
“So you cook, garden, and arrange flowers?” Blair asks, plucking the jar of cinnamon from the hidden spice rack. “What else do you do for my inept father?”
“I’m going to mend a button on his shirt after breakfast. And while everyone is eating, I’ll make the beds and water the houseplants. Then I’ll—”
“That’s enough.” Blair laughs while shaking her head and recapping the cinnamon. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. It’s all too weird.” She sips her coffee. “My mother used to mend my dad’s shirts.” She eyes me. “But she didn’t do it wearing a dress and heels. I thought my mother was sick, but it’s clearly just my father who is unwell.” She heads into the dining room before I can respond.
I finish the arrangement and pivot to take it to the dining room just as Murphy steps into the kitchen with chaotic wet hair, navy shorts, and a white polo shirt.
Despite my breath catching, I find a quick smile. “Good morning, Mr. Paddon.”
He pauses, opening the cabinet door to the glasses. “How do you know my last name?”
I don’t miss the hope in his eyes.
“Miss Morrison said she’ll be a Paddon soon.”
He presses his lips together after a few seconds and nods while retrieving a glass.
“Can I get you coffee?”
“Um, sure. Thanks. I like it—”
“Black,” I say, taking two steps and stopping with a hard swallow.
“How do you know that?”
“Mrs. Morrison told me.”
She did not.
“It’s strange that she knows that,” he says.
“Not really. She’s observant and resourceful.” I continue to the dining room.
After everyone finishes breakfast, the kitchen is clean, beds are made, and I’ve mended the missing button, I head outside to check the stock of towels by the pool and raise the sun umbrellas.
When I turn the corner, Murphy glances up from his book. He’s in a lounger by himself.
“Did you get left behind?”
He rests the open book face down on his chest and slides his aviator sunglasses to the tip of his nose. “Blair and Vera went shopping. And Hunter took one of his cars for a joyride.”
I open the towel bin. “And you didn’t get invited on his joyride?”
“He invited me, but I passed because he smokes cigars on his joyrides, and even in a convertible, I end up eating half the smoke.”
I crank up the sun umbrella over one of the tables. “Is there anything I can get you? A drink? Music? Sunscreen?”
“Hunter has a turntable in his study with an impressive vinyl collection,” he says.
I blink several times before nodding. “I’m aware. But I don’t think he’d want me bringing it out here by the pool for you.”
Murphy deflates because I don’t take the bait.
I lace my fingers behind my back. “Anything else?”
“Do you play pickleball?”
I glance toward the court. “I have played. I’m not that good.”