Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
My ovaries are over here practically busting out their own omelets, which is just…a horrible thing to think about.
“Granny. Mom. Cameras. Now.”
“Well, hmphf. If you insist.”
His grandma turns to me, and I’m not sure what the wink is about, but I get one anyway. “I’d like mine with extra tomatoes. More tomatoes than eggs. Almost all tomatoes. With some salt and pepper, some of that fancy vinegar glaze, and a dash of hot sauce. Spice keeps us vital, you know.”
I nod.
While I concentrate and get cracking—haha, egg jokes—Thaddius clomps around the house in his big boots, faded jeans, and that T-shirt that is so holy, Hannah, ouch to the lady bits just right. He’s all muscly and bristly and warm looking.
Turns out I’m not just cooking eggs. I’m also cooking my brain over here. Or there’s a good chance it’s already well and truly cooked if it’s sending hormonal signals that are all over the place to an entirely different kind of egg.
Within twenty minutes, Thaddius’ mom and grandma have pointed out at least six cameras, and now I get what he’s so steamed about. They pulled them out of the wall, one out of the eye of a painting in a hollowed-out spot behind a wall, two hidden by ceiling lights, and one from the super cool, huge cactus in the living room.
I only know about all the locations because Thaddius went on a disbelieving rant every single time he pulled them out.
The cactus? That is too far! How did you even get the camera in there without getting stuck? Are you kidding me? You hollowed out the wall behind the painting? The lights? That’s some serious spy shit there, Grandma.
I’m in the middle of cooking the world’s most plain omelet because Thaddius didn’t tell me what he wanted in his, and I wasn’t about to ask him when he walked in looking like he was about to tear down the place, his jaw ticking and his eye twitching all crazily. I figure cheese is a safe bet. Who doesn’t like cheese? He stalks into the kitchen as I’m very carefully turning the thing over in a cast iron frying pan that is basically more about egg murder than it is about cooking. One quick trip to the sink and a whole armload of tech goes in. It’s a farmhouse sink, white and huge, so it fits everything. Then, he runs the tap over it, effectively killing it for good. Unless they’re waterproof.
Wanda and Elmira enter the kitchen, seemingly completely unbothered about the fact that they obviously bugged his house.
I don’t want to get involved, especially since I’m already too far into this. I don’t want to get sucked into the black hole of messed-up grandmothers and kick-ass spy moms.
“Breakfast is ready.” I slip the last omelet onto one of the white plates with the surprisingly pretty embossed flowers around the edges. “Get ‘em while they’re hot.”
The table in the corner—a round wooden antique piece with four wood and leather chairs—seats all of us.
“Broccoli! Heaven!” his mom exclaims after a bite. “You are a miracle worker.”
“Doubtful.” I’m not sure miracles can be performed with the grossest of all vegetables.
“Ha!” His grandma waves a fork at me. “I’m not going to buy that for a second. Not when you cheffed up the most perfect breakfast. Do you know how hard it is to successfully make an omelet, let alone in a cast iron frying pan on a gas stove?”
“I did notice that it was challenging.”
“But you didn’t burn a thing. And this cheese is perfectly melted. You even found the glaze I asked for, and the tomatoes are literal perfection. Whoop, whoop, good job!”
She actually says whoop, whoop. She doesn’t just make the sound, and somehow, she still looks cool doing it. Also, the matching tracksuit thing? Pretty badass, I have to say.
Thaddius blows out a harrumph that lasts for an eternity before he cuts his omelet into four pieces and jams one into his mouth. He pretends to hate it, but I can’t miss the slight narrowing of his eyes that is from oh god, this is cheesy, and cheese is good, not from still being pissed about the cameras.
And the marriage contract.
And the fact that I showed up here.
And how much both of our lives have been tampered with so far.
And despite sleeping in the barn last night.
There go my ovaries as his eyes close, exploding into stardust and wishful thinking. Heavens to Betsy and back, I never imagined I’d like the smell of farm, but Thaddius makes me realize I could if it was clinging to him.
“Why don’t you marry her now that she’s here? Look at her. She’d make the perfect wife,” his mom starts off, shattering the perfect peace.
When they walked into the bedroom this morning, they literally stood there in their matching tracksuits and bowl cuts, grinning at me.