The Readaholics And the Falcon Fiasco
“Scared by the threat and by the fact that someone had been to my house to deliver it, I’d dashed out, not even grabbing my purse, and driven straight to Brooke’s. We sat in her kitchen, the only room in her house that wasn’t formal and expensive and intimidating. Well, it was expensive—acres of granite, appliances with foreign names I couldn’t pronounce, and extras like warming drawers and a second oven and a walk-in wine cooler—but it was homey, too, with red brick around the stove and floral cushions on the chairs. We sat at the table in her breakfast nook, which looked out on a backyard so designed that it looked like it’d been imported rock by rock and plant by plant from the Denver Botanic Gardens.
Troy stood at the stove in running gear, reheating last night’s stew for lunch, while Brooke fetched me a glass of cranberry juice.
“Drink,” she said when I started to talk.
The glass chittered against my teeth as I drank.
Write Review:
User Reviews: