All In (TROPHY DOMS NEW YORK #1) by Kate Hawthorne EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Authors: Kate Hawthorne
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
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KALE
My twin brother, Boston, and I were on 5th Avenue in front of the
French Consulate talking about how many carrots our parents had sent with
their last unwanted CSA shipment when I caught the first gust of a fall
breeze in New York. Shivering, I gave a little wiggle of my shoulders and
tossed the long end of my scarf around my neck to keep my throat warm.
“It’s cold,” Boston groaned.
I threw a sidelong glance at him, dressed down from work with a pair of
dark gray slacks and a pale pink button-up. He had on a tie, the knot
loosened, and if he’d started with a jacket, I couldn’t tell you where it was
now.
“And you made fun of me for this.” I smacked him in the face with the
ends of my cashmere scarf, also a present from our parents, but I’d lost
track of when it had arrived at my brownstone. Maybe the winter before?
Or spring? I didn’t have the best sense of time because I was always busy
and days bled into each other with no real separation or distinction.
“It was eighty earlier today,” he said.
“And it’s October.”
He folded his arms in front of his chest and tipped his head back, most
likely cursing the height of the buildings around us, the French flag
whipping around in the breeze above us.
“Anyway.” I was warm. “You were saying about the carrots.”
“Like a hundred carrots, Kale.” He threw his arms up, quickly returning
them to his chest after another gust blew past us. “What am I supposed to
do with that many carrots?”
“Maybe if you ate them, you could stop wearing your glasses.”
He glared at me, pushing the thick black-rimmed frames up his nose.
“You know that’s not even a real thing, right?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Beta-carotene is good for your eyes, but it was some WWII
propaganda that got out of control,” he said.
“Well.” I wrapped my scarf a little tighter around my neck. “Stew or
something.”
“Do I strike you as the stew type? When was the last time you had
stew?”
“I’m not a fan. I don’t even like soup.”
Boston snorted, rolling his eyes. “Gazpacho is soup.”
“I don’t know how to help you,” I told him, “My box had pumpkins.
Enough to start my own patch.”
Boston let out a hearty laugh at that. “What are you going to do with
them?”
“Donate them, probably.”
“You could make a pie,” he suggested.
“I could make a thousand pies with the volume of pumpkins currently
sitting in my pantry.”
Our parents were hippies in the best sense of the word. And the life my
brother and I had built for ourselves couldn’t have been any more different
than what our parents had chosen. The money came from our paternal line,
with roots and bank deposits settled deep in the city since the first high-rise
buildings had gone up.
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