Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
I rub my hand over the back of my neck and yawn deeply. Nakedness is a definite no, but after Cora’s dismissive tirade, I’m inclined not to be bothered about making her feel comfortable in a home she obviously doesn’t want to be a part of.
Sighing, I tug open the door to my bedroom and head downstairs.
Mrs. Henderson is already vacuuming, and as my feet hit the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, I gaze around, trying to decide what to eat for breakfast.
My late rising has reduced my time this morning. I have to get to my workshop early because I’m meeting Bonnie from the gallery to discuss which pieces they want to take to the exhibition in a couple of weeks. I’ve been working up to this for months. Glancing down at my hands, I wince at the calluses and cuts that mar them. Even with gloves, creating metal sculptures takes a physical toll.
Deciding on cereal as the best option, I grab the milk carton from the refrigerator.
Apart from the distant whir of the vacuum, the house is quiet. I guess my brothers are all still sleeping, or maybe showering before they head off to their own jobs and lives. Mark is the only one of us who has a nine-to-five job. Danny’s either here full-time or off across the country or world at one of his shows or shoots. River and Tobias are still at the behest of their football coach and college professors, their schedules variable for each day.
I stretch my arms above my head and roll my stiff shoulders before pouring the milk onto my cereal, shaking my head at the ridiculously childish concoction in front of me. If Mom was still alive, there’s no way this sugary junk would have made its way into our kitchen cupboards, but Mrs. Henderson is paid to take care of us, and so she buys what we ask for, not what’s good for us.
I flop onto the tall stool in front of the kitchen island, resting my arm on the white flecked granite surface, shuddering from the cold against my skin; I shovel a huge mouthful of the crunchy puffs into my mouth. I only chew once and immediately spit the whole mouthful back in the bowl, retching.
What the hell? Is the milk off? I glance at the bottle still resting on the counter. The use-by date isn’t for days, and anyway, it doesn’t taste sour. It tastes odd. I pull the bottle toward me and sniff it, my nostrils flaring and eyes staring at the ceiling. What is that?
Ranch?
The milk inside is flecked with seasoning, and the smell of ranch dressing is overpowering.
What the hell?
I mean, Mrs. Henderson is old, but she’s not senile.
And then it hits me.
Cora.
Danny and his stupid pranks haven’t been met with surrender. Cora’s hitting back with some antics of her own.
Gross.
I drop the milk back on the counter and head to the refrigerator for some water. Washing my mouth out, I spit into the sink, shaking my head.
It’s too early to be dealing with this shit. I should be mad. I don’t have time to make anything else to eat, and my mouth tastes like feet. But I find myself chuckling lowly that the girl is coming out fighting.
Good for her.
Many wouldn’t when faced with five huge men.
Maybe there’s more to her than meets the eye. And what meets the eye is pretty damn hot.
I toss the cereal in the trash, and I’m about to tip the spoiled milk down the sink when I think better of it. I’m not responsible for setting Cora into fight mode. If I leave the milk where I found it, maybe Danny will take a gross mouthful. The prospect of my younger brother scowling his magazine-cover face at the ranch milk is enough for me to place the bottle back into the refrigerator.
I spot my Oreos in a tub at the back and reach for them. I love it when the cookie and cream are cold. Oreos for breakfast is gross, but my stomach rumbles, so I guess it will do. Tugging the container, I snap it open, placing an Oreo in my mouth as I start to make my way back upstairs.
And then I start to splutter, spitting dark cookie crumbs all over the shiny hardwood floor. What the fuck?
The part of the cookie in my hand doesn’t look strange, but when I bring it to my nose, I know immediately what’s wrong. Cora’s filled my Oreos with minty toothpaste.
MY OREOS!
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I return to the kitchen and place the box back in the refrigerator. If I could wring Danny’s neck, I would.
I take another swill of water in my mouth, and then I give up on breakfast altogether.