Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
The second I opened the door, I was hit with it.
The scents of food cooking.
The tangy red sauce, the creamy white sauce, garlic, basil, oregano.
What was he cooking?
The living room was abandoned, but a TV was on, some reruns playing.
“August?” I called, wincing at how much my throat hurt as I spoke.
You’d think sleep would make you feel better.
But, nope.
I felt like crap.
All the pains that had been overshadowed by my worry and fear before were amplified now.
“There you are,” August said as I stepped into the kitchen.
It was an enormous space, longer than wide, with a sprawling island down most of the length of it, and a dining table toward the far end with a view of the water.
He’d clearly been up for a while, dressed in slacks and a button up. No jacket, tie, or shoes, just socks.
“Christ,” he sighed as he approached me, his hands framing my face, eyes sad, as he took in all the bruises that really settled into impressively dark shades of blue and purple.
“Feels worse,” I admitted.
“Got your medicine over here. And fresh coffee,” he said, waving toward where he had a cup already waiting for me on the counter.
“What time is it?” I asked as I watched him make me coffee, then bring it and the bottle of pills over to the table.
“Twelve-thirty.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I asked, eyes round.
“Because you needed to sleep,” he said, shrugging as I took two pills, knowing they weren’t going to do much, but at least they’d do something.
“Did you have Smush shop for me?” I asked.
“I did. She just did a quick shop so far. We wanted you to have something to change into when you woke up. But she’s out doing more shopping now.”
“She really doesn’t need—“
“Yes, she does,” he cut me off. “And I don’t want to hear shit about paying me back, or why everything is new, not second-hand, none of that shit,” he said, smirking at me.
“This brand is sustainable,” I said, pointing toward my shirt. “And the soap was organic…”
“Told you Smush is better at this shit than any of us would be,” he said. “Doesn’t even know you, but got all the shit you’d like.”
“Am I gonna meet her?” I asked.
“If you’re feeling up to it, sure,” he said.
“Okay. That’s enough small talk. What are you cooking?” I asked, getting a big smile out of him.
“I’m heating. Mom cooked,” he told me.
“She was here?” I asked.
“Yep. One of my brothers must have told her you were here. And injured. So she hit the store when it opened, then rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised to find my eyes glassy.
“Of course,” he said. “And I’m sure there is going to be a meal train once this food runs out.”
“A meal train?” I asked, sipping my coffee, and trying not to jump up and go grab a bowl of whatever was in the oven.
“All the women will pick a day and meals and drop them off. They do it when someone is hurt or sick, pregnant, post-partum, anything that would make cooking good food difficult.”
“That’s really great of them,” she said.
“You done acting like you’re not fucking dying for some food?” he asked, clearly knowing me a little too well.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “I want a serving big enough for a bodybuilder. Two bodybuilders,” I clarified.
With that, he got up, going to the oven to pull out something that seemed to just be staying warm.
“Fettuccini alfredo with broccoli and breadsticks,” he told me as he brought over a giant plate for me, and a much smaller one for himself.
“Oh, my God,” I groaned, the smell alone practically fucking orgasmic.
I wasted no time, jumping in and twirling the thick noodles, then stabbing a floret of broccoli before shoving it all into my mouth.
“Oh, my God,” I whimpered as I started to chew. “I hope you don’t want anymore of this, because I am eating all of it,” I told him.
I stuffed my face until my stomach was so full that I was uncomfortable.
“What else did she make?” I asked as August took the dishes to the dishwasher.
“Pasta Pomodoro and eggplant parm,” he told me. “She said that should get us through the day,” he added, smirking. “I promised her that I would tell her any preferences when you woke up, so she could make those dishes.”
“Really?” I asked, heart feeling like it was swelling in my chest.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Isn’t that a lot of work?”
“Baby,” August said, shaking his head. “She’ll be offended if you don’t have some suggestions. She wants to do it, let her do it.”
“In that case, ravioli. And minestrone.”
“She makes a fucking banging minestrone,” August said. “She’ll even make bread bowls to eat it out of.”
“Well, that needs to happen,” I decided.
“How are you holding up?” he asked as we moved into the living room, him pulling my legs up over his lap, and me resting my head on his shoulder almost immediately. Like we had been doing this for years.