Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
He stared at me with a stone-like face, his features hard like they’d been carved with a knife. “Then I guess we have nothing else to discuss.” He abruptly left the chair, and it tipped over from his momentum. Then he walked out of the room, his boots audible on the stairs as he left headquarters altogether.
I’m coming by.
Her dots were immediate. Okay.
Our relationship had profoundly changed because I’d stopped asking her permission. I just told her what was happening, and she accepted it.
I walked in the door ten minutes later, and her heels had been left by the entry under the hooks where she hung up her coat. The apartment smelled like food, a hot meal coming from the kitchen.
I spotted her by the counter, barefoot but still in a tight skirt and blouse.
Her eyes lit up at the sight of me, our tense conversation a memory in the past. She moved into me and rose on her highest tiptoes to kiss me.
My arm hooked across the small of her back, and I lifted her slightly, my neck bending to kiss her, feeling the same heat between us despite the waves that tried to douse it.
“Hungry?” She planted her hands on my chest as she pulled away.
“Always.”
She smiled then turned back to the stove. “Set the table.”
It’d been a long time since I’d done anything like that, but I found the white plates in the cabinet and put them on the little table near the flower vase. Then I grabbed a couple of forks and spoons and knives, unsure what we were eating.
She opened the oven door then pulled out a sizzling hot pan.
When the smell hit me, I knew it was pot roast. Smelled pretty damn good.
She set it on top of the stove to cool and then sliced up a baguette she must have grabbed on her way home. Tossed it in a bowl and put it in the center of the table before she uncorked a bottle of wine.
I took a seat and watched her work, watched her make a home so naturally. She couldn’t cook the way my chef did, but in some ways, I actually preferred what she made.
She didn’t make conversation as she worked, too focused on what she was doing.
Fine by me, I enjoyed the show.
She eventually set the deep dish on an oven mitt in the center of the table, along with a large spoon for serving.
A woman had never cooked for me, had never done anything for me before her.
She served herself first, and then I plopped the meat, potatoes, and carrots onto my plate. I’d come here with an agenda, but the food was hot and good, and it stole my focus. She didn’t say much either, just watching me eat and taking her time with her meal.
I kept grabbing pieces of bread and using them as a spoon to shovel the tender meat into my mouth.
“Like it?” she teased.
Too busy chewing, I just nodded.
She chuckled.
“A lot better than those bacon-wrapped scallops that Bastien wouldn’t shut up about.”
She chuckled again, this time substantially louder.
I wasn’t a funny guy and didn’t make jokes, but I’d somehow made her laugh. And she was cute when she laughed.
“How was your day?” she asked. “Or your night, I should say.”
It was the very reason I was there. “Fine.”
She never pushed for more information. Just accepted what I offered her. “Working on the fall catalogue right now…already. It’s not even spring yet. But we have a lot of great pieces to debut at Milan Fashion Week. I’m excited.”
I was glad I’d gotten her that job because she’d been noticeably happier since she started working there. Made decent money and devoted her time to something she was actually interested in. I hated that she’d lost everything, and now I wanted to give her everything I could.
I finished my food first and wiped my mouth before I watched her. With my arms crossed over my chest and my ankles crossed under the table, I relaxed, enjoying the silent companionship we had. It reminded me of my relationship with Bastien, when the two of us could just smoke together and not say anything for an hour. It wasn’t awkward or tense. Just natural.
She finished her food then drank from her wineglass.
“I spoke to Carvel.”
She swallowed the drink she took, and then she slowly tensed, like she hoped that this subject had long been buried.
“The relationship seemed to mean more to him than it did to you.”
She wouldn’t look at me, her fingers resting on the rim of the wineglass.
My eyes pierced the side of her face.
She remained quiet, physically uncomfortable.
“He doesn’t want me to see you.”
Her head snapped in my direction instantly, a jolt of fear in her eyes so profound it looked like she might cry.
She felt horrible, and I was a horrible man for feeling good about that.