Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
His brow furrows. “She’s six. She doesn’t need makeup or nail polish.”
“She’s a girl. Girls love makeup at all ages.”
“What’s next? Dating? You gonna tell me girls do that at all ages too? She should be playing with Legos or dolls at her age.”
I laugh at his dramatics, then go serious. “No dating yet. But she did say she thinks Nicholas Sawyer is cute.”
“What?” he gasps, dropping the box. “That guy is a fucking tool. She isn’t going anywhere near any guys, with or without makeup on, until she’s forty. Especially since she has such horrible taste.”
I double over in laughter. Nicholas Sawyer is a new up and coming artist, who’s in his teens and is also known as a ladies’ man. He’s taken to his newfound stardom by getting into trouble and in turn, his face has been splashed across every tabloid in the grocery stores. Kendall loves his music, but she never said he was cute.
“You better get used to it,” I warn. “If this baby is a girl, there will be two girls running around in makeup, crushing on boys like Nicholas.”
Easton’s face contorts into a look of horror. “It’s a boy.”
“You don’t know that,” I tell him through my laughter.
“Yes, I do, because there’s no way I could handle two girls.” He mock-shivers. “It’s a boy and he’s going to keep all the other boys away from Kendall. End of story.” He grabs the pamphlet and opens it up. “Now, grab me a drill please, so I can put this stupid pink thing together.”
I’m still laughing when I bring him my toolbox and set it down in front of him.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, eyeing it.
“My tools. I don’t have a drill, but I have a bunch of screwdrivers and stuff.”
“It’s pink,” he deadpans, holding it up. “And glittery.”
“It’s cute,” I argue.
“This shouldn’t even be allowed to be sold.” He stands and pulls the parts out of the box. “We’re going to need to get you some real tools.”
“No need.” I shrug, walking around the mess laid out on the floor so I can help him. “I have you now. Part of being a boyfriend means putting stuff together.” I step over a piece of pink plastic and am about to step over another, when I lose my balance. My foot slips across the wood floor and my hands are torn between catching my fall and protecting my belly. Before I can decide which to do, strong arms encircle my waist. Easton and I still go down, but he lands first on the hard floor, taking the brunt of the fall, while I stay wrapped up safely in his arms, my body landing on top of his.
In the same breath, he carefully rolls us over, cushioning the back of my head and hovering above me. “You okay?” he breathes, his eyes filled with concern.
“Yeah.” I bob my head. “Thank you.”
“You called me your boyfriend.”
“Huh?”
“You said part of being a boyfriend means putting stuff together.”
“Oh.” Shit, I did say that.
“I like the sound of that,” he admits, kissing the corner of my mouth. “And I also like knowing I’m the man you want to put shit together.”
He pulls us up into a sitting position. “Now, you sit here, where it’s safe, while I put this shit together. Kendall told me she wakes up extra early on Christmas, so I imagine we’ve only got a few hours.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” I mock-salute.
I watch him for a little while putting the item together in silence, then get bored. “How old were you when you knew you wanted to be a musician?”
“I was young, probably Kendall’s age. I grew up in the studio and on the road with my parents, listening to my dad sing, watching him perform. I loved it all and knew one day I would follow in his footsteps.”
“What if you couldn’t sing?” I ask, curious.
“Then I would’ve done something else in the music industry, like write music or produce.” He flips the page on the directions and squints at it in confusion.
“How about I read the directions while you put it together?”
“Sounds good.” He hands me the paper.
I read him the next direction and he gets started on it. A minute later, he says, “How about you?”
“Huh?”
“You said you wanted to be a family attorney the other day. When did you know that’s what you want to do?”
I can’t tell him about Freeman and the fear I felt when he threatened to take my baby away, so I give him half the truth. “My dad left when I was little. He owns his own business, so he lied about what he makes and got away without paying child support. My mom struggled because of it. I want to help people in her position, so they don’t feel helpless.”