Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I also want to know why it’s so damn important to me for him to like my house better. This isn’t supposed to be a vacation or a reward. It’s so I can watch over him.
Well, I’ve got the watching over him part covered.
A little too well if I’m being honest.
Violet sets everyone up with their dessert and coffee before leaving. I don’t miss the lightness in her step and the perpetual smile. It’s evident she loves having another person to dote on. This too pleases me.
Fuck.
I’m not supposed to be getting this much pleasure out of having the enemy in my camp.
He’s not the enemy, idiot, and deep down you know that.
The library is quiet, devoid of conversation, and only the clanging of spoons on glass bowls can be heard. After we finish, the quiet becomes comfortable as everyone settles into their books.
Though this book does sound intriguing, and I will read it later in my room, I’m not wasting a second to observe Tate and Grandpa. Grandpa is content to read and sip his coffee, a peacefulness emanating from him that I’ve always been envious of.
Tate isn’t peaceful. He’s tense and engrossed in his novel already. With each flip of the pages, he frowns harder, worry lines forming between his eyebrows. I’m sort of impressed with the speed at which he reads. It’s as if he’s devouring the book like he did his cobbler. Bite after delicious bite, he’s a glutton for the story. I feel like him, except he’s my book. I’m turning each of his pages faster and faster, hoping to learn every single bit about him sooner rather than later.
Time passes, but I’m not sure I even blink. Soon, I notice Tate yawning quite a bit and Grandpa’s head is lulled to the side as he’s already nodded off. I’m disappointed as I realize our night has come to an end.
I tuck the book into the pocket of my hoodie and then rise, stretching my arms above my head. Tate glances my way and his eyes drag down my front, settling on my exposed stomach. He bites on his bottom lip and quickly looks down at his book.
Like what you see, little boy?
The thought dissipates as quickly as it forms. I can’t go there. Ever.
“Grandpa,” I grunt. “Time for bed.”
Grandpa sits up, droopy eyes hazed over as he looks around. “I suppose it is. Night, kids.”
We follow after him. Tate introduces himself to Mary, the home health nurse, when we make it to Grandpa’s room, and then we both head upstairs. His cat has already made it back to his room, not at all having gotten lost, and lazily watches us from the bed.
“Tonight was…” Tate trails off, shrugging. “I enjoyed spending time with you and your family.”
I fist my hands, wishing I could reach out and touch him, or even return the sentiment of enjoying his company too. All I can manage is a feral, caveman grunt.
“Night, Jude.”
He softly shuts the door in my face.
Why, after all these years, do I suddenly feel selfish and want something for myself?
It’s dangerous and can’t happen.
With a sad sigh, I turn and leave the man who is quickly turning my already fragmented, blackened mind into a kaleidoscope of shattered, colorful thoughts—all of which involve him.
Tate
Last night was…amazing. Quite frankly, I’m shocked. Yesterday, when I got sent to my “prison,” I’d expected to be miserable. At first, I was a bit intimidated. But as the hours went by and I got to meet both Wyatt and Violet, I realized it wasn’t so scary after all.
The best part of it all?
Jude.
Getting to see a softer, gentler side of him was nice. It gives me hope for him after all. He’s hurting inside, that much is clear, but he loves his family fiercely. That’s something I can work with. Maybe just maybe I can help the big oaf so he’s not so miserable all the time.
Plus, Violet is a fantastic cook.
And there’s a library.
It really is a pretty sweet setup. Minus the non-heated bathroom floors.
Funky meows by my bedroom door, asking to be let out. Over dinner last night, when Jude was spacing out, Violet told me Willa stopped by to drop off Funky’s food and water bowls.
“Miss Violet probably added some extra stew meat to your bowl this morning,” I say to my cat. “Don’t get spoiled, mister.”
He stares at me, swishing his tail. Clearly, he’s not going to listen.
I open the door and he darts out. I follow him into the kitchen, where Violet has already prepared his breakfast. No stew. Just bacon. Damn cat is going to hate his life whenever we move back out on our own. Back to generic brand cat food for him then.
“Oh, Tate, sweetheart. The grocery delivery person said they’re on their way. When they get here, can you bring in the groceries for me? I’ll have a breakfast sandwich ready and waiting for you.”