Wicked Sweet Read Online Free PDF

“That was funny.”
    He thinks he knows what I’m thinking.
    “Damn.” He slaps the side of the car for effect. “That Chantal can run. ”

Chantal
    Hope .
    A s my chocolate euphoria crashed and my dejection descended a million times deeper than Cinderella’s, I Googled “British TV chef” until I found her. Nigella Lawson. Despite the absence of magic wands or spells, I knew minutes later that Nigella was my virtual savior.
    It was the episode of “Totally Chocolate Chip Cookies” that convinced me that she had been waiting for me.
    Nigella: (Close-up of her concerned face with those killer eyebrows and hair that’s a little out of control.) You’ve probably guessed that was a sobbing girlfriend on the phone.
    How does she know?
    Nigella: A small bit of tea and sympathy is required.
    I love Earl Grey. With milk. And a shot of vanilla syrup.
    Nigella: But I think an express batch of chocolate chip cookies will administer all the comfort that’s required. (Her voice as smooth and husky as a full moon in September.)
    Therapeutic baking. Of course. I don’t have to eat it to feel better, I just have to create it. Like being a mother to myself.

Jillian
    Home .
    I push my bike though the mess in our front yard. The toy cars Dad 2 picked up at a garage sale, the hockey sticks Dad 3 complains about taping, the goalie nets that lean sideways, and the hockey padding that reeks.
    I hear the boys although I can’t see them when I walk in the house. They must be in their rooms on time-out or put-yourselves-to-bed duty. All I want is a glass of ice water and a fan blowing on me, but I have to face Mom first, without revealing that Chantal’s mad at me or that I have made consistent eye contact with Parker.
    I realize, when I see them from across the room, that I didn’t need to worry about them picking up on anything I was thinking. Mom and Dad 3 are at separate ends of the couch. Kid toys litter the space between them. They each have a short glass with a single ice cube. It’s Thursday and Mom is cutting loose.
    “Jillian,” she says. “I thought you’d be home at dinner. Had to do it all myself.” She takes a drink, her hand moving sloppily toward her mouth, the glass dipping, slipping, before it reaches the arm of the couch again. It’s clear this isn’t a routine Thursday night.
    I remind her that today was the last day of school and the first day of summer holidays and I went out to the lake, like always. My nerves twitch. “What did you eat?”
    “Tacos,” Dad 3 says. “Again.”
    “Everyone eats tacos. That’s the important thing.” Mom picks between her front teeth with her pinky nail. “And hamburger is cheap.”
    I wait for the conversation to continue or end, and subject myself to watching Mom and Dad 3 exchange slanted glares. Something is going down.
    “Well, I … uh … need to go to bed.” And get out of this room. “I’m on kid duty tomorrow, right?” I know Mom is working this weekend and Dad 3 spends his days off with “the boys,” but he means the guys from work. Maybe only one of the six boys sleeping upstairs is his, but the Hat Trick and Double Minor think they belong to him, too. The only men Mom seems to marry are the ones who love their man friends as much as they love her.
    “About that.” Dad 3 leans forward, and I notice, again, how ugly facial hair is—bushy eyebrows, mustache, beard stubble. I don’t share my mother’s taste in men and I see that as a positive sign for my future. Dad 3 drains his drink, wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m heading out of town … for … a while. And you’ll need to be helping your mother out a bit more.”
    Not again. The tone of his words, too familiar, carries all his apologies: I always liked you, thought you were such a good kid, you’ve got a real promising future, if you ever need anything you can call me. I stare at Mom. How can she pick the same guy over and over?
    “He’s visiting his brother.” Mom