Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I know I’m coming at this with insider knowledge, and it’s not fair in the least.
He flinches, as though everything inside him crashes, burns, and grinds to a wrenching halt. “No one’s ever asked me that. Or much of anything at all over these past years.” It’s not bitterness that coats his words; it’s loneliness.
“I’m sorry, that’s rude. It’s none of my business. I… my family kind of believes in curses. We had something once. Something great. And now we kind of lost that, and we’re bordering on desperate.”
He nods in understanding, probably thinking about the old-money-lost-all-the-money heiress business that he makes an assumption about. “It’s not that uncommon. My mom isn’t fussy with who she picks out, but I think she has it in her head that someone might pity marry me for the cash and then come to love me in the end. She gets heavily invested in her romance books.”
“But the paperwork—”
“She might not know that I ambush people with that.”
“You should probably just tell your parents it’s not working out,” I venture. I take another bite of fish, and oh my lanta, holy goodness, it’s incredible. Not having Luca put his cooking into the world is a great loss.
One that you don’t have to rectify. It’s not up to you to fix this. He’s not looking to be put back together.
He shrugs. “It’s not worth it. They’d be here every day, all day, worrying about me. I want them to have a life too. They’ve worked hard. They’re good people, despite what this looks like. They aren’t trying to buy me a companion or love. They just want me to have something to live for past surgery dates, hoping against hope for a medical miracle.”
“That’s really hard,” I say.
“It’s been years. I’m used to it.”
I try the rice and potatoes, then the carrots, but I go back to the fish. You couldn’t have paid me a million dollars to touch the stuff before… okay, that might be extreme. I’d take the million and poke the nasty thing and go on my merry way.
“This is incredible.” I try not to moan, but moan I do. “You’re really good. Really, really good. All the people who said your food was magic weren’t kidding.”
He snorts but relaxes enough to stab a potato onto his plate and dig out a bite. “Who said that?”
Shit. Did anyone ever use that very specific word? Unlikely. “I… you know… just… I heard that somewhere. Some interview somewhere along the way. And you have a cookbook. Don’t you only get something like that if you’re really incredible?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“But you were. I’d be so angry if I were you. That it was all taken away in some random accident, in a split instant.”
“I was,” he mutters.
“I hate when people say life isn’t fair. Duh, but shut the fuck up with that. It’s not helping.”
He half smiles and points his fork at me. “You have no idea how nice it is for someone to just tell me the truth instead of coddling the shit out of me. Coddling is born of pity, and that’s all well and good, except I detest it more than I hate what happened in the first place.”
“Yeah.” I trace a pattern on my plate with my fork.
“You know quite a bit about me, compliments of the internet, no doubt, but I know almost nothing about you. What do you do?”
I speak before my brain can catch up with my mouth. “I paid someone to research you and found out about this whole scheme thing that isn’t really a scheme. But anyway, I scared off that poor, unsuspecting girl and came in her place. I have a fake ID. I’m actually from across the country, and you have no idea the request I’m about to make.”
He drops his fork and throws his head back. Late summer sunlight spills over his soft mahogany hair. It’s longer than most people wear it, cut short on the sides and back, with shaggy locks that hang over his forehead. Very… punk? I’m no barber, but it looks good on him. That’s all I know.
Laughter rises out of him like I’ve conjured it. It’s not brief this time but hearty and lasting. And it goes on and on. He laughs so hard that he has to smack his knee. He’s actually enjoying himself.
“Now that’s some honesty you don’t get from most people. What do you really do?” he asked.
Right. Because who would believe that level of crazy?
I swallow hard past the way my mouth has gone so dry because he’s beautiful when he laughs and even more so when he smiles that imperfect, gorgeous grin, and his eyes sparkle, and he looks so freaking happy instead of doubtful, melancholic, and alone.
“Business stuff,” I mumble, giving him a half-truth. “It’s boring and soulless. My real passion is baking. It’s kind of how I knew who you were when my dad asked me if I would do this.”