Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
The cold nips at my face and seizes my lungs. I try to tell myself it’s the only reason I’m struggling to breathe as we stumble over the last snowy patch inside.
All three of us.
Here we go, primed for our next disaster.
It’s just pizza, idiot, I tell myself.
But I know it’s not.
It’s an existential threat to my world.
Whatever else happens, we can’t have any relationship that crosses professional wires when it will bring him too close to the truth about Arlo.
And if my moral compass ever stops spinning—if I choose to tell him about his son—it has to be on my terms. Not because I’m falling apart and dumping everything in one long, chaotic panic attack after a rotten night.
As we take the elevator to my floor, I wonder what I’m really getting myself into with this pizza party.
Just how much damage can my heart take when I bring Patton Rory home?
12
PEPPERONI PLAY (PATTON)
In hindsight, I might have overreacted.
The problem is I don’t regret it.
The logical thing to do was exactly what she asked—arranging a tow to take her home and get her shit sorted.
That’s what any self-respecting boss looking out for an employee would do in my position.
Me? I had to freak the hell out and go in guns blazing the instant I knew they were stuck in the storm. The edge in her voice on the phone—fuck, I’ve never moved so fast in my life.
Now, here I am, tucked away in her small, warm apartment while Arlo talks himself up as reigning karate champ of the world. The kid makes it sound like he was born with black belt in his blood.
Must be from his mother’s side since he sure as hell didn’t get it from his ghost of a dad.
Salem watches us, sitting across from me in an armchair with fabric tape holding one ripped seam together.
I can’t quite read the expression in her eyes.
Something haunted, wistful, a wariness I probably deserve.
It’s probably not often grown men visit her place this late, especially with the boy around.
Knowing our past, barging in like I did was probably a dumb move, and she must regret it every second. But I’ll sort out whatever the hell this is later, when I’m not in their apartment.
The doorbell rings and Salem jumps like a startled cat.
“Stay there, guys. I’ll get the pizza.”
“I loooove pizza!” Arlo tells me, pumping his fist like he’s revealing some great secret. “It’s my favorite but Mommy doesn’t let us have it very often.”
I suspect he thinks this is a character flaw.
“Your mommy wants you to eat healthy so you can grow up to kick some butt. Just like your heroes,” Salem says, returning with two large boxes in her hands.
The little pizza shop up the street isn’t one of those fancy places with all locally sourced ingredients and more cheese than sauce. Really, it’s one step above pure take-out comfort trash, but when she lays the boxes down on the table and opens the lid and the warm, greasy scent curls out, I know he was right.
Tonight’s perfect for junk food.
There’s something comforting about the smell, and I close my eyes as I inhale.
To think, if I hadn’t answered her call, I’d be scrambling eggs and spinach with a steak on the side at home. My go-to after a long day when it’s reasonably healthy and it doesn’t take long to throw together.
“Wash your hands, Arlo,” Salem commands as he rushes toward her. “And make sure you use soap.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
She glances up with a tiny smile.
Shit, I could stare at that smile all day. I’m glad she’s getting over the storm rattling her.
Stop looking at her like that, a voice growls in the back of my mind.
“I’ll plate us up,” is all she says.
After we’re all washed up and ready—and she inspects Arlo’s hands to make sure he really did use soap—she hands out plates with one big slice for each of us.
We devour the grub eagerly in companionable silence.
Fuck me, this pizza is good.
It’s just basic pepperoni, aside from my margherita pizza, but it’s the perfect warmth, grease, cheese, and spice we need on a shit night.
“I don’t care what anybody says. Best pizza in Kansas City,” Salem tells me with an amused glance at Arlo, who’s eating himself into a food coma. “I know a certain someone agrees.”
“Who?” Arlo asks, chewing obliviously.
“He’s not wrong. This is incredible.”
“I’ll let the owner know you think it’s good. Strong endorsement, coming from a Rory.”
“You know him?”
“His son lives in the building, just a few units down,” she says with a shrug. “He’s taken a liking to Arlo—or Arlo’s taken a liking to him. I don’t know how it happened, but they’re friends now. He always stops to talk when he sees us in the hall.”
I hate that I can see that. Arlo’s a good kid, now that I’ve gotten to know him better. With his mom handling him alone, it’s easy to appreciate how he’s turning out.