Read Online Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2) by Katie Graykowski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katie Graykowski
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driver’s seat, backed up, and speed-bumped me over and over again.
“That’s not very nice.” Hos before bros, or since Ben had bugged my house, bitches before snitches.
“You hate to cook.” Monica shrugged like she couldn’t help the truth. “Am I wrong?”
“No, I didn’t say you were wrong, only rude.” I stuck out my tongue. The best communication techniques were ones I’d learned in kindergarten.
I glanced back at Max and Landon. They seemed as bored as I felt. I looked around the kitchen, which would have easily fit three of my houses inside, and noticed that there was no food—anywhere. For someone who claimed to have cooked me dinner, the kitchen was suspiciously food-free.
Maybe this was the show kitchen? The real one was probably in the basement, full of sweaty, overworked, illegal French chefs who were chained to the stove and forced to make éclairs and soufflés all day and night. For humanitarian reasons, I should have called immigration, but I really liked éclairs and soufflés.
I went to stand between Max and Landon. They might need backup in case one of those illegal chefs broke out fighting for their freedom.
“Let’s eat while it’s still warm.” Ben nodded to a hallway. “Right through the butler’s pantry is the dining room.”
My eyes went to the farm kitchen table and eight chairs. So we were to dine in the dining room. In my last house, I’d had a dining room. That was where I’d stored the stupid crap my ex-husband gave me for Christmas—like a treadmill and a set of pots and pans and a rowing machine.
We walked through a hallway with floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted cabinets filled with dishes. I leaned closer to get a better look at the dishes...china?
What single, straight man owns matching plates, much less fine dinnerware? If he pulled out napkin rings, a sterling-silver soup ladle, and a gravy boat, I’d know that any sparks I’d felt for him before were total misfires. Gravy boat equals bats for the other team—not even a plays-on-both-sides kind of situation.
“Here we are.” Ben led us into a giant room with more floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Lake Travis. It looked like he might own his own cove, and the house was a horseshoe built around the lake views.
The wooden table was simple and modern—somewhere between a corporate conference table and patio furniture. I counted the clear-plastic chairs. It seated twenty. Did he often have dinner parties with nineteen of his closest?
“Here, Mustang, sit next to me.” He pulled out a sleek chair.
“Okay.” I sat down, and he scooted me under the table. What else could I do?
“Max.” Ben pulled the chair on my right out for Max.
Max sat down, and Ben pushed his chair in.
“Monica and Landon.” Ben pulled out the chairs across from us but didn’t wait for them to sit down. “Let me get more place settings.”
Max leaned into me. “What are we supposed to do with all of these forks?”
I looked down. Two white-and-gold-rimmed plates were stacked under a bowl. Surrounding the plates were an excessive number of forks, knives, and spoons. I understand flatware on the left and right side of the plate, but when it comes to above the plate—come on—who needs all of those extra forks? Okay, so maybe I can see having a salad fork and a dinner fork...sort of. Why can’t people just lick the salad dressing off of the first fork and use it for dinner? There were five forks, four knives, and three spoons. Add five glasses of various sizes, and one place setting was enough to fill up the dishwasher. Oh wait, there were probably hand was only.
Ben came out of the butler’s pantry carrying a stack of plates and two handfuls of flatware. I wasn’t sure I owned two handfuls of flatware.
He set his armload down in front of Monica and looked around. Two softball-sized patches of red blushed his cheeks. “My housekeeper actually set the table. I don’t know where all of this stuff
“That’s not very nice.” Hos before bros, or since Ben had bugged my house, bitches before snitches.
“You hate to cook.” Monica shrugged like she couldn’t help the truth. “Am I wrong?”
“No, I didn’t say you were wrong, only rude.” I stuck out my tongue. The best communication techniques were ones I’d learned in kindergarten.
I glanced back at Max and Landon. They seemed as bored as I felt. I looked around the kitchen, which would have easily fit three of my houses inside, and noticed that there was no food—anywhere. For someone who claimed to have cooked me dinner, the kitchen was suspiciously food-free.
Maybe this was the show kitchen? The real one was probably in the basement, full of sweaty, overworked, illegal French chefs who were chained to the stove and forced to make éclairs and soufflés all day and night. For humanitarian reasons, I should have called immigration, but I really liked éclairs and soufflés.
I went to stand between Max and Landon. They might need backup in case one of those illegal chefs broke out fighting for their freedom.
“Let’s eat while it’s still warm.” Ben nodded to a hallway. “Right through the butler’s pantry is the dining room.”
My eyes went to the farm kitchen table and eight chairs. So we were to dine in the dining room. In my last house, I’d had a dining room. That was where I’d stored the stupid crap my ex-husband gave me for Christmas—like a treadmill and a set of pots and pans and a rowing machine.
We walked through a hallway with floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted cabinets filled with dishes. I leaned closer to get a better look at the dishes...china?
What single, straight man owns matching plates, much less fine dinnerware? If he pulled out napkin rings, a sterling-silver soup ladle, and a gravy boat, I’d know that any sparks I’d felt for him before were total misfires. Gravy boat equals bats for the other team—not even a plays-on-both-sides kind of situation.
“Here we are.” Ben led us into a giant room with more floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Lake Travis. It looked like he might own his own cove, and the house was a horseshoe built around the lake views.
The wooden table was simple and modern—somewhere between a corporate conference table and patio furniture. I counted the clear-plastic chairs. It seated twenty. Did he often have dinner parties with nineteen of his closest?
“Here, Mustang, sit next to me.” He pulled out a sleek chair.
“Okay.” I sat down, and he scooted me under the table. What else could I do?
“Max.” Ben pulled the chair on my right out for Max.
Max sat down, and Ben pushed his chair in.
“Monica and Landon.” Ben pulled out the chairs across from us but didn’t wait for them to sit down. “Let me get more place settings.”
Max leaned into me. “What are we supposed to do with all of these forks?”
I looked down. Two white-and-gold-rimmed plates were stacked under a bowl. Surrounding the plates were an excessive number of forks, knives, and spoons. I understand flatware on the left and right side of the plate, but when it comes to above the plate—come on—who needs all of those extra forks? Okay, so maybe I can see having a salad fork and a dinner fork...sort of. Why can’t people just lick the salad dressing off of the first fork and use it for dinner? There were five forks, four knives, and three spoons. Add five glasses of various sizes, and one place setting was enough to fill up the dishwasher. Oh wait, there were probably hand was only.
Ben came out of the butler’s pantry carrying a stack of plates and two handfuls of flatware. I wasn’t sure I owned two handfuls of flatware.
He set his armload down in front of Monica and looked around. Two softball-sized patches of red blushed his cheeks. “My housekeeper actually set the table. I don’t know where all of this stuff
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