Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“She would’ve been a minor in that photo, Trace,” Clay explains. “My dad called her mom. He called her dad. No one is answering. He waited until Watson hit the parking lot and then gave him a bloody nose.”
Really? Heh.
“My dad’s known Krisjen since she was a baby, you know? He was really upset.”
“Don’t worry about anything,” I tell her. “Tell your dad not to, either. We got it from here.”
“We?”
I hang up, heading for the house. I like Krisjen. I always have. She’s sweet to people, and I don’t want that ruined, because I think that’s why I was drawn to her. Neither of us has grown up, but where it’s just pathetic on me, it’s hopeful on her.
I step into the kitchen as Army pulls chicken nuggets out of the freezer. I snatch the bag out of his hand and toss it back in. “Get Dex,” I tell him. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see,” I say. “This could be it. Come on.”
Krisjen and I have screwed at least twenty times, but I’ve never been inside her house. I know which one it is, and I’ve passed it a million times, but the Conroys hire elsewhere for their landscaping, and when we hooked up, Krisjen never wanted to do it at her place.
Which made sense. I can be seen with a Saint. Her parents can’t see her with Swamp.
Army parks, and I walk up the long driveway to her house, avoiding the door at first. The Spanish revival has characteristics similar to my house—the clay shingles, the stucco exterior, the lead-paned windows and wooden front door. But her house is white, in excellent shape, and I know from her social media that she has a huge T-shaped pool on the back patio, which itself has as much square footage as the damn house. Or at least looks that way on Instagram.
I spot her crossing the room in front of the window, and I step over the flower bed, tapping on the glass. She jerks around, then sees me. I nod once and head for the door.
No idea if her mother is home, but I don’t think she usually is. Rather not bump into her, in any case.
Krisjen pulls open the door, and I stroll in, not waiting for an invitation. “Hey,” I say, looking around the shiny foyer. There’s a mirror on the ceiling. In the foyer. I shake my head.
“What’s up?” I hear the surprise in her voice.
I face her, Army stepping in, his kid hanging half off his shoulder. “Kids eat yet?” I ask her.
“About to.”
She’s studying me like I’m going to piss in her house.
I whirl around and head into the living room—or one of them anyway. “What are you cooking?” I shout.
But I just hear her yell behind me. “Hey!”
It’s too late. I already spot the kitchen to my left and head for the doorway. “It smells good in here,” I call out.
“It smells like her,” Army adds.
Paisleigh and Mars sit at the kitchen island, but we’ve never formally met.
Krisjen charges after me, her voice on my tail. “What the hell are you guys doing?”
But then I stop, scrunching up my nose as I turn to Army. “Do you smell that?”
He nods, hesitant. “Broccoli.”
I pick up the plate in front of the little girl, inspecting that shit that’s popular in homes with women. Thank God Macon eighty-sixed that crap the day he took over. The only green things I eat are jalapeños.
“Krisjen, what are you doing to these kids?” I eye the little girl. “You want to eat this?”
But the middle schooler next to her pulls down his headphones instead. “Who are you?” Mars asks.
I like the scowl on his face. It’s protective.
I pick up the grilled cheese on Paisleigh’s plate and take a bite.
The butter hits my tongue, and my taste buds fucking implode. “It’s actually pretty good,” I tell Army.
There’s ham on it, and the cheese is on the outside of the bread. Weird, but massively edible.
Krisjen sets her hands on her hips. “It’s croque monsieur.”
“Croque what?” I try to ask, but my mouth is full, and she just rolls her eyes at me.
Army takes it. “Looks like ham and cheese to me.” He bites off a hunk, his eyebrows shooting up and nodding at me in approval.
“Haven’t we seen enough of each other?” Krisjen asks.
But I look at the kids. “You guys want ice cream for dinner?” Paisleigh nods so hard her head nearly falls off.
But Mars is skeptical. “You’re the Jaegers,” he says. Then, he looks to Army. “Are you Macon?”
“That’s Army,” Krisjen tells her brother and then points to me. “That’s Trace.”
“Come on.” I start to move for the door. “Get your shoes on. We’re going to make sundaes.”
“Yay!” the girl shouts.
“Trace!” Krisjen yells, but I ignore it.
I grab Dex from my brother and swing the one-year-old around my head, leading the way as the kids jump off their stools and follow.