Page 4 of Fractured
I sighed then pinched the bridge of my nose.
Talia plus in a kitchen equaled disaster.
And five minutes later... I was right.
“Dang it. Mother humper.” She was saying as she eyed... something... black in a cake pan.
I leaned my shoulder against the doorway and sighed, then I said, “So, did the NHL contact you about making them new hockey pucks?”
She whirled around and then screeched, “You aren’t here. Get out. Now.”
I chuckled and didn’t move.
Then she got right in my space, stretched up on her tiptoes, and jabbed at my chest with one finger, “Get out. Now.”
When I didn’t move, she called out, “Mrs. D! Tell him to get out of the kitchen.”
I heard my Ma giggle, then she said, “Now, Talia dear.”
That was the very moment our bickering feud started.
‘I wish I were a little girl again because skinned knees are easier to fix than a broken heart.’
– Julia Roberts.
Prologue II
Talia
Age 8
Dominik Davis.
The very epitome of smexy.
(Yes, I heard that word and knew what it meant.)
It was amazing what little ears could hear.
From his amber-flecked, colored eyes to his black hair.
From his six-foot-four height to his eight-pack of abs to his tattoos.
Standing in front of me, my very own prince charming.
When Mrs. Davis had called my mama and told her that Dominik was coming home, I had asked if I could make him a welcome-home cake.
They had all been exasperated.
Because I was a terror in a kitchen.
I didn’t get it.
I followed the recipes with an eagle eye.
Dominik smirked down at me at his mother’s words.
I growled, “You're ruining it. Now, get out.”
