Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“I’ll put it anywhere that keeps me away from child support court.” Frogger makes an X with his arms and hisses like a cat as if that’s the worst thing he can imagine.
“Maybe try a rag, then,” Wayne suggests, giving Frogger a Disappointed Dad look.
The day’s not all shit-talking and jokes, though, and by quitting time, we’re one hundred percent prepped for concrete. The guys throw me a wave as they leave, piling into Wayne’s truck for the drive home.
I head to Kathy’s back door to give her the update, but after a couple of knocks, she doesn’t answer. “Huh, I thought she was here all day,” I muse aloud, looking up at the windows of the house. There’s no movement behind any of the curtains now, and I decide to take not-dealing with Kathy as the gift that it is.
Truthfully, I don’t know what’s been happening around here today. We were in the hole, out of sight and unaware of whatever activity was going on above our five-to-thirteen-foot-deep station, when accounting for slope and plumbing. I heard the trucks coming and going at Dani’s all day, and the music playing this afternoon, but there wasn’t a single chance to climb up and see for myself how things were going. Hopefully, my parking adjustment helped Dani a bit.
Only one way to find out for sure.
I hop the fence, going up to Dani’s back door again. Yesterday, I did it as a way to check on her before announcing my presence after seeing a new and out-of-place vehicle in her driveway. Today, I do it because it makes me feel like there’s something more between us than temporary proximity. Like maybe we could be friends. Or like maybe that kiss wasn’t a mistake of epic proportions.
Instead of knocking, I call through the screen door, “Knock, knock, Daniela.”
I hear her sigh from inside. “Come in.”
Grinning at her already-annoyed tone, I go in to find her standing at the kitchen sink. She’s gorgeous, as always—her face covered with the slight sheen of sweat, her bun slightly off-center on the top of her head, her blue tank top spotted with water drops, her strong legs covered in swirly print yoga pants, and her hands and lower arms covered in rubber gloves, which seems like a good choice given the hard scrub down she’s giving to the pan in front of her.
“Anybody here I need to know about?” I tease, scanning the kitchen where it’s only the two of us, leaning over to peer into the living room, and even picking up the lid from the pot on the stove to look inside.
“Hey! Put that back,” Dani says. “It’s soaking so I don’t have to work so hard to clean it.”
I let the lid fall into place with a clatter. “Want some help?”
She stops scrubbing and pins me with a wary look. “Why?”
She makes it sound like my offer comes with not only strings, but full-blown restraints and restrictions, plus some clauses and addendums. I shrug. “Wanted to ask how your visit with your brother went, and standing here while you work is rude.”
“Oh,” she utters, sounding surprised, though I don’t understand why. “Sure, I guess that’s fine. Here.”
She sets her steel wool scrubber down, takes off her gloves, and hands them to me. I squeeze them on—she’s got a lot smaller set of hands than me—before popping the cuff like a surgeon in the operating room and taking up my position in front of the sink. It’s full of spoons of various sizes and a few spatulas, but I start with the pot she was working on, scrubbing it in long strokes the same way she was. I might not be a chef, but I know people are particular about their cookware, so I’m not gonna do anything that could destroy the tools of Dani’s trade.
Dani stares at me like I’m an alien for a moment, but then she moves to a drawer. I can’t see what she’s doing at first, but she turns around with a large meat cleaver in her hand.
“Fuck, just tell me to get out,” I balk, holding my glove-covered hands up in surrender. But I’m grinning because I’m mostly sure she’s not about to dice me into chunks for tomorrow’s lunches.
“Har-har,” she deadpans before explaining, “I need to sharpen my knives.”
“Scaring the shit outta me is a solid bonus, though, right?” I joke with a big grin. She tries to hide her answering smile unsuccessfully, and I know I’m right.
I go back to scrubbing while she sets up at the kitchen table, soaking a well-used whetstone in a bowl of water and lining up the cleaver as well as a handful of thankfully smaller knives.
“What’s your brother sell?” I ask, starting easy. I want to know everything about Daniela Becerra, but like me, she doesn’t share readily, so dancing around the questions I really want to ask is the best way to learn anything about the short-tempered, sexy spitfire.