Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“So, blacksmithing?” Aunt Vivian retorts coolly, using Cole’s answer against him. “Charming. Your coattails are rather broad, Charles.”
She offers an icy glare to Dad, measuring his reaction to her trust fund comment, but Dad simply stares back at her, blank-faced and uncaring. He’s dealt with harsher critics than his whiny older sister, and apparently doesn’t feel the need to explain to her that none of us have trust funds. College, yes. Trust, no.
“I’m riding on Dad’s coattails too, Aunt Viv,” Kayla volunteers, holding a hand up and grinning. “Blue Lake Asset Group has been so good to me, welcoming me with open arms, giving me a home away from home where I can work hard and succeed,” she says wistfully, almost sounding like a pageant girl, which she isn’t.
If she mentions world peace, puppies, or Rihanna, I’m going to lose it and laugh out loud.
To the uninitiated, it’d seem like Kayla’s making light of her work, but we know exactly what she’s doing—rubbing Aunt Viv’s nose in the fact that while she was never allowed to be a part of the family company, other women are. Grandpa Chuck might’ve been a staunch misogynist in his day, but that can be overcome . . . by the right woman, someone made of sturdier stuff than Vivian could ever dream of.
Hell, Aunt Vivian’s own mother did it and was a prime role model for her, if she’d bothered to open her eyes and look.
“Hmmph, I was just curious what you all have been up to because Devin’s been doing some amazing things recently. Haven’t you, Devin?”
She starts on a series of ‘fishing tales’ that, if they were even ten percent true, would make Devin the richest, handsomest, most popular man on the planet, as well as Mr. Universe, the champion of the Super Bowl, and possibly the next Pope and/or President if he wants.
Through our soup course, she talks about his business acumen. Through our entrees, it’s his physical prowess. And into a sorbet palate cleanse, it’s how lucky Bridgette is to have a man like Devin at her side.
I’m used to Aunt Vivian and her anything-but-humble brags, but it’s still a bit much, even for me. Looking around the table, I can see that Carter and Luna have tuned out and are having a silent conversation with their eyes, Cole looks ready to pummel Devin unprovoked, and Cameron is playing ‘sticks’ with Gracie, a finger tapping game that usually keeps her distracted and entertained. Mom and Dad have on the polite, bland faces I’ve seen hundreds of times at fundraisers and events over the years, and I know that Mom is singing in her head, going through her mental library of pop classics. Grandpa and Grandma are the only ones listening, but the boasts are about their grandchild so it seems warranted.
“And my Devvy-poo, my wittel baby goes potty all by himself now,” I whisper in Samantha’s ear as Viv talks about some sort of clean water initiative Devin’s ‘working with’, which we all know is code for ‘sends money to and schmoozed at a cocktail party for’.
I try not to burst out laughing, but a snort still leaves my throat, and for the first time, Aunt Viv deigns to pay attention to me. It’s funny, but I’ve actually appreciated her hysterical gloating because it’s literally taken all attention off me and Samantha. After tonight, no one will remember that I showed up with a surprise date who said outrageous things to Grandpa Chuck. All we’ll remember is Aunt Vivian droning on and on about Devin.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I apologize automatically.
Placated, Aunt Viv starts again when suddenly, there’s a thunderous ROAR from outside.
She can’t catch a break! I think to myself, laughing at the continued interruptions she’s been ‘victim’ to.
All attention turns to the windows behind the head of the table as a bright light stabs through the darkness and the distinctive sound of a ridiculously loud, barely muffled motorcycle comes through from outside.
“Uncle Kyle!” Gracie yells as a motorcycle comes tearing onto the side lawn of the estate. The motion-activated lights kick on to show us the driver planting the front wheel and cranking a hard donut, sending chunks of grass flying in a large circle before he parks.
Gardener’s gonna be pissed at that one.
A minute later, Kyle comes striding through the French doors that Grace unlocked for him, like it’s totally normal to show up for a family dinner through the side door in dirty jeans, a slightly ripped T-shirt, a leather jacket, and boots.
“‘Hey, folks,” Kyle says in way of greeting, pausing by the yet to be sliced birthday cake to zigzag-slide a finger through the icing on top, making sure to contaminate as much as possible. Slipping the large glob of icing into his mouth, he sucks at his finger before sighing, “Mmm, damn, Grandma. How do you do it? Always killing it with the food. It’s the only reason I came tonight.”