 by Jessica Gadziala.jpg)
Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Nino
“What are you doing in my driveway?” Matteo barked, making me roll out from under his wife’s car.
“Changing the oil,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag.
“Why?”
“Because it’s been six months.”
“Why are you changing her oil at all, is the question.”
“Because it needed to be done.”
“Christ, Nino. Don’t you think you’re taking this ‘indebted to Josie for life’ thing a little far? It’s been years now.”
“Yeah. And my brother is still alive all these years later because of her.”
A while back, when Josie and Matteo had first started dating, some shit had gone down that meant men were coming after her. My brother Massimo had been one of her guards that night. If it weren’t for Josie, the fucker who’d shot him was going to put a final bullet in his head. But then she’d gone after the attacker with a fucking frying pan, getting herself kidnapped in the process, but saving Massimo’s life.
I owed her.
So I tried to pay it back in small ways when I could.
“You do realize I’m her husband, right? I’m supposed to be the one dealing with the oil. Taking out the trash…”
“Oh, yeah, brought the cans in too,” I said, waving over toward them.
“It’s six in the morning. Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?” he asked, shaking his head at me.
The sad thing was, not really.
My schedule had been pretty light as of late, aside from the occasional work shit.
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Jesus,” Matteo hissed. “Go get some breakfast or something. And no,” he said when I started to open my mouth, “Josie doesn’t need anything. I think someone else needs to save one of your brothers’ lives, so you can fixate on them for a change,” he said, but he was smiling.
With that, he went back inside.
I finished the oil, cleaned up my mess, then went ahead and followed his advice. I’d been up since five, getting a quick workout in, then doing the oil.
I could use some sustenance.
Seven in the morning, though, meant that there weren’t a whole hell of a lot of options in Navesink Bank, so I drove another town or so out, finding a little early morning brunch place that had opened up a couple of months before.
The Brunch Bar was a tiny gem of a place wedged between a dry cleaner and a small general store in a strip on the highway.
A terrible location, really, but the owner had clearly put a lot of work into it.
The robin’s egg blue sign was bright and the font clear from the road. A couple little colorful tables sat out front on the sidewalk near the double plate glass windows to each side of the door.
The windows had trailing plants hanging from a rod above them, and crystals hung here and there, casting little rainbows of light into the restaurant.
Even the damn chime on the door—a chirping sound instead of a bell—was charming.
The inside was small, only accommodating about six tables of four down the center, and two tables of two by each window.
Like the tables out front, each one was painted a different color with mismatched chairs. The long wall along the side was covered in art of different sizes, styles, and frame colors. Busy, but in a purposeful way that felt cohesive.
It was nice.
To the right was a counter with a dessert case and coffee machines. Likely for quick eats on the go.
“Hey! Just give me oneeeee second,” a voice called from somewhere behind the counter that I couldn’t see. “Just trying to… fix… something,” she went on, and there was a hammering sound that had my brows raising.
“Take your time. I’m in no rush,” I said, picking up one of the menus sitting on the counter, a long, handwritten thing in a thick laminated case.
“Get in there, you utter pain in the. rear. end,” she went on, punctuating each word at the end with another whack of whatever tool she was using. “There you go,” she said.
Then she was popping up right in front of me, all bouncy blonde hair pulled into two high pigtails with a mushroom-printed bandana wrapped around the top of her head.
I couldn’t claim it was often that a woman damn near knocked the wind out of me when I first saw her, but that was exactly what happened right that moment as she looked up at me with these big fucking eyes the color of forest moss and framed with thick light brown lashes.
Her face was feminine with a sharp jaw and pouty lips. Or, at least, I figured they might be pouty, if they weren’t turned up into the biggest, most welcoming smile I’d ever seen.
“Secondhand items are great,” she declared. “But sometimes, they need to be beaten into submission,” she informed me, waving around her pink child’s size hammer, before placing it on the counter, and putting her hands on her hips. “So, are you in a rush, or planning to stay a while?” she asked as I tried not to let my gaze drop below her face.