You?” she asked incredulously. Had the earth stopped spinning? She understood Drake’s words but they didn’t make sense. Handyman? No. He was off with his band somewhere, preforming to thousands of fans, not standing in her kitchen offering to do manual labor.
She forced herself to look away as if arranging her ingredients on the workstation proved an all too important duty.
This is a WIP. “Drake? she asked though his name sounded more like a croak from sick bullfrog. His lips curved in that all too familiar lopsided grin and she mentally cursed herself for allowing his smile to affect her in a way that rendered her speechless. “Hi, Eastyn, long time no see,” he said with a shrug. The lights flickered and he glanced at the fixture overhead. That’s all he had to say to her? Well she had plenty to say to him, only she couldn’t remember one lick of the speech she had rehearsed years ago for just …
“Where would you like me to start?” she heard a man call to her and she frowned wondering why Mr. Tennyson’s stiff with age voice now vibrated beautifully clear as if he were a much younger man.
Enter to win an e-book bundle of all 19 books featured in the Wintertime Reading Bookish Event:
Open Internationally.
Runs January 26 – January 31, 2021.
Winner will be drawn on February 4, 2021.
“Do you believe she’ll even want me there even if it’s to work on her place?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” His father said and strode away not waiting to hear his reply.
He wanted to see Eastyn. It was the reason he was here, but he wanted a plan their meeting in a neutral spot, not show up at her place as the handyman. It didn’t seem like the best way to see someone you left behind and hope to apologize and be forgiven.
“Of course. Anything you need, I’m at your service.” He reached for the toast on the plate in the center of the table then the butter knife to slice a generous portion of butter to slather on his bread.
Then his mother looked at him and smiled. “I bet you’re hungry. We were just about ready to sit down to dinner. I’ll make you a plate.”
“I’m famished,” he admitted. The scent of roasted chicken wafted in the air and he’d bet she had a cherry pie baked, too.
Of course it’s all right,” his mother said. “What kind of question is that?”
