Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
His steps stutter. My heart skips a beat.
I wait for him to say hello or smile. Instead, I only get a half wave, half salute before he disappears into the garage.
“Men,” I mutter, shutting the door behind me.
CHAPTER FIVE
GABRIELLE
What in the world . . .”
I groan, shielding my eyes from the bright morning light. The sound coming from beneath my bedroom window begins again.
My body aches as I roll onto my side. Muscles I didn’t know I had throb. Scratches litter my arms and legs, thanks to my fall from grace yesterday.
I want to curl up on the soft mattress and go back to sleep. But I’m jostled awake not only by the thumping outside but also at the time shown on the clock—nine thirty.
“Crap,” I grumble.
The hardwood is cool against my feet. I reach into my small closet and grab my robe, tying it haphazardly as I head for the stairs. Both boys’ bedroom doors are open, and the rooms are empty.
“Boys!” I call down the staircase as I try not to trip over the edge of the robe. I poke my head into the living room. “Dylan? Carter? Where are you guys?”
I take the corner to the kitchen and almost run into my oldest son.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I say, jumping back.
“Better go wipe your ass, then.”
“Dylan James.” I glare at him. “Watch your mouth.”
“Sorry.”
He’s not sorry.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, thankful for automatic machines. First things first. “Where’s Carter?”
“Your golden child rode his bike to the park with a kid we met yesterday.”
“Does this kid have a name?”
Dylan shrugs.
“So you just let your little brother go off with an unknown person in a new town?”
“Look, Kyle knew the kid. Carter played with him for two hours yesterday, and his mom was walking with them. And considering this is the cheesiest town in America, I’d say he’s fine. Chill out.”
I hold my steaming cup between both hands. “Dylan, after I drink this and can think clearly, you and I are going to have a conversation about your attitude.”
“Wasn’t it you who said last night that you didn’t want to rehash conversations that we’ve had a million times?” He shrugs and starts up the stairs. “But whatever. All I got is time.”
I think he mumbles something like “Until I’m eighteen,” but I’m not sure.
The mug is at my lips when the pounding starts again. I jump, dousing my front with hot liquid.
I want to cry. I want to yell at whatever is making that damn noise. I want to pour the coffee down the drain and go back to bed until Dylan grows out of the stage that makes me understand why some animals eat their children.
“Ugh.”
I set the mug down and grab a hand towel. My jaw is set, and a growl is on my lips. I throw open the door ready to brawl.
“What the hell is going . . . on out here.”
My voice softens until the last of my words are barely audible.
Holy. Crap.
Jay kneels on the deck, looking like a freaking snack. A tight white T-shirt that’s thin enough to snuggle his back and arms lies over the ridges and valleys of his body. Jeans hug his thick thighs. A tool belt wraps around his narrow waist. He looks up at me, does a quick scan from head to toe, then lifts a brow and goes back to work.
I vaguely remember putting on a pair of shorts with jelly beans on them that barely cover my ass and a white tank top, no bra, before I went to bed last night. Better keep this robe pulled tight.
“Your little boy is riding his bike with Hayes Collins,” Jay says without looking at me. “His mom, Freya, works at the city building, and his father is the principal at the elementary school. They’re both good people. He’ll be okay.”
What? I groan. They’re going to think I’m a terrible mom.
He stops drilling for a moment. “I heard you inside, talking to your other boy. The one with the mouth.”
“He has a mouth, all right,” I say, blowing out a breath. The attempt at slowing my heartbeat down to a regular speed isn’t successful. “Those people are going to think I’m awful. Maybe I am awful.”
“Relax.” He drills another screw into the post and then checks it for sturdiness. “Your older boy told her it was fine. No one is judging you.”
I hope that’s true. “How long have you been here?”
“Twenty minutes or so. Saw your kid out here and figured you were up.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “I see I was wrong.”
I’m not strong enough to deal with two males with attitudes without coffee.
I start to answer him, to justify myself by saying that I never sleep this late. I can’t remember ever sleeping past eight o’clock. But I don’t owe it to him, or to anyone, to justify anything . . . even if he has nice muscles and is fixing my railing.