Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 107673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I’d never known anyone to hang on to the idea it wasn’t a hangover for so long. And Beau wasn’t teasing, which had to mean he’d stayed away from the liquor. His father must have truly been in bad shape. I took a seat and unscrewed the top. “It’s a hydration drink with a few health boosting additives inside. Try it.”
I took a sniff. It actually smelled pretty good. Encouraged, I passed it to him and reached for the water bottle on the nightstand. I had it ready to go. Per Google’s instructions, Beau had to drink both in intervals.
Beau’s skepticism became reluctance after he took a good whiff.
“No, you’re smelling your own breath,” I said. “It’s Powerade. You know the importance of hydration. Drink it. Take a few gulps then drink the water. Scott’s waiting.”
Beau scrunched his face and squeezed his eyes closed, downing two long gulps. “Not too fast. You have to drink the water too.”
Half a second later, his eyes popped open. He gave a solid heave.
I cringed. I hadn’t anticipated such an immediate negative reaction. Beau scooted clumsily off the bed, giving a second, much louder heave.
“What’s in that?” Beau’s stomach gave an audible, violent sound as he heaved, and darted out of the room, running down the hall.
“Beau,” his mom called.
“Move, Mom!”
With a furrowed brow of disappointment, I reached for the Powerade bottle. A longer smell of the contents had me pulling away. I got a healthy dose of the raw eggs that time. Apparently, I needed to go back in front of the drawing board if my creation was going to be the next best thing. Too bad. I wasn’t throwing in the towel just yet. The drink made sense. Beau was loud in the bathroom. If the drink made that happen regularly, people wouldn’t use it more than once. I’d figure it out.
Wedding Night
Scott’s Childhood Bedroom
I’d been eyeing Dash in the whys and the ways he used the hairdryer. I didn’t have a lot of time. Scott had hogged most of the minutes in front of the mirror, making sure he looked his very best. We shared the same bathroom and bedroom to shower and dress for the big night.
Feeling too big for the small space of the bathroom, I flipped on the hairdryer and attempted to tame my unruly hair. My lack of skill and serious need for a haircut had me trying my best, pushing the hair off my face, and drying it thoroughly. It didn’t take long.
I discarded the hairdryer in the sink. Thought better of it and moved it to the small edge of the vanity before staring at myself in the mirror. I ran the brush over my head, pulling my hair completely off my face. Shockingly, it stayed that way.
Scott had used hairspray liberally over his shorter new haircut. I decided I would too. I didn’t want to look like a heathen in his wedding pictures.
“Clean up pretty well, don’t I?” Scott asked, standing close to the window of his old bedroom. Much like I had done over the last thirty-six hours, my focus went to Scott, who was attempting to hide his nervous energy with a cocky attitude and a faux confident swagger.
Vulnerability had his brows permanently furrowed. Anxiety flushed his cheeks and neck. But he looked good in the modern cowboy garb. Decked out pretty sharp in his all-black attire consisting of a crisp black cowboy suit coat, matching vest, and a pair of brand-new dark pressed jeans. The dress shirt he wore was cinched with a timeless family heirloom: an iconic scorpion bolo tie passed down through the generations of stylish men in his ancestry.
The effort he used to perfect his hair in the mirror was about to be ruined by the dark Stetson waiting on the edge of the bed.
“Sure do,” I quipped and resisted the urge to continue the competition between us by stating I look better.
His shiny new Tecovas boots were the same as mine. A dark, almost black color. He did look great. I’d worried about the cash I spent trying to find clothes to match his. I wore dark ironed jeans, about the same color as our boots, and a pressed, charcoal pearl-button, long-sleeve dress shirt. Luckily, I didn’t have to wear a hat or bolo tie. I didn’t like the way cowboy hats made me look, and I’d sworn off anything that needed a knot around my neck.
“Fuck, I’m nervous. What if I can’t handle all this? Lauren wants to be taken care of, and I want to support my family, but what if I fail?”
Since it was a conversation we’d had over and over today, I was set to dish out some motivational pep talk, but he cut me off with a hand on his stomach. He began to pace.