Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” she meekly bites her bottom lip and meets my gaze, “and it’s how I’m sure he’ll keep me.”
“For forever if you let me.” Rather than allow for a possibly unwanted rebuttal, I politely segue by offering the beverage melting in my possession. “I made you coffee for the drive.” She swings her “Tooth Be Told” beach bag over her loose fitted black dress covered shoulder and accepts the drink. “Cinnamon horchata iced coffee.”
“I’ve never had horchata iced coffee!” Excitement floods her beautiful dark gaze during the lifting of it to her lips. “What is it?”
“Coffee mixed with horchata flavoring, which I made from scratch with rice, water, cinnamon, and vanilla.”
She pauses instead of tasting. “Wait. You made the flavoring?”
“Yeah.” My floral, tropical Hawaiian shirt sporting shoulders innocently bounce. “Gave me somethin’ to do last night besides cock blockin’.”
“Which I didn’t appreciate.”
“Which is why you aren’t bein’ left alone today,” I mumble back.
“Wow,” Gilly warmly whispers out, “that’s so…thoughtful.” Her teeth briefly sink into her lip again. “I’ve never had anyone make me coffee before. Let alone the stuff that goes in it.”
Loving that I’m the first – and the first for so much – has my shoulders pushing back in pride at the same time I declare, “More than happy to be the first and last, Gillybean.”
She giggles and indulges in her first sip, something she enjoys considering the heavenly hum that escapes.
AlGreenhelpmenow.
I’m about one moan away from sending Bronny home in an Uber and blowing off the event to engage in a bit of “Love and Happiness”.
“This is soooo good,” she praises after a second taste. “You make it often?”
“Horchata? No.” I wait for her to shut and check that the door is locked behind her. “Coffee? Yeah. Been makin’ that since Gramps saw I could reach the button.”
My little brother fights the urge to chuckle knowing Gramps treated him the same way.
“Growin’ up, I’d make his for him – black no sugar-”
“On Sundays he’d put a shot of Wilcox in it to celebrate the lord,” interjects Bronny.
“I’d make Grams for her – two sugars-”
“On Sundays Gramps would put two shots of Wilcox in hers to help her find ‘more reasons’ to celebrate the lord,” cackles my brown swim trucks wearing houseguest.
“And I’d always make it for our mom.” A bittersweet smile slides into place. “She let me experiment. Would try anything, anyway I made it.” My hands find their way into my green and white triangle prints trunks. “She was always supportive like that.”
This time Bronny doesn’t say anything.
He didn’t get much time with her.
Even when she was alive, she was hardly around.
Sure, Grams and Gramps helped raise us, but Mom worked two jobs, doing her best to provide for us.
Refusing their “handouts”.
Sad thing is…that’s not what they were tryin’ to give.
They just didn’t want her to be working so much that she missed out on life with us.
And in a lot of ways…she did.
I’m lucky I have the memories that I do.
I’m bummed Bronny doesn’t have more.
Can’t.
“How’d she pass away?” Gilly cautiously inquires.
“Car accident,” Bronny answers, voice doing its best not to shake. “Late night. Dirt road. Deer suck.”
“What about your dad?” Her attempt to shift back onto a happier subject fails. “Did you make his too?”
“Never met mine,” I inform upon our arrival on the passenger side of the truck. “Military. Marine, I think. Died when I was a newborn. And I met Bronny’s twice. He died before she knew she was pregnant.” He opens the back door. “Firefighter.”
“Ohmygod,” she airily croaks out. “I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have asked! I-”
“Didn’t know.” The shut sound causes more pain to cross her complexion. “And it’s okay that now you do know.” Preparing to open her door occurs next. “Part of datin’ is learnin’ ‘bout more than jus’ how someone likes their coffee, aye?” My reassurance is accompanied by the pulling of the handle. “In you go, Gillybean.”
After making sure she’s properly settled in, I take a moment to drink in how perfect she looks in my truck, happily hum to myself, and swing back around to climb inside myself.
My door has just finished shutting when she cheerfully asks, “Okay, guys, where are we headed in our swimwear? Paddleboarding? Yacht party? Boat race?”
“Y’all do that here?!” my younger brother excitedly questions, folding his frame into the space between us. “When’d you get a boat?!”
“I ain’t got a boat.” My mirth filled attention cuts over my shoulder to him. “But Wahl has one he shares with his brother.”
“Think he’ll let me drive it?!”
“Legally you can’t without a BEC,” informs my date, recollecting our attention.
“Why I gotta have birth control to drive a boat?”
“That would be BC,” she gingerly corrects. “BEC stands for boater education card, which is just a little safety course to ensure you have the capacity to operate the vehicle.”