Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 143382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
“I haven’t been to Savannah’s restaurant once since I moved out of the house we shared. And her place is very popular.”
Oh man.
This was definitely a point to ponder.
“He’s not coming because of the coffee or because it’s a cool place,” Eric stated. “He’s coming to see you.”
“I’m not really sure—”
“Babe, I got a dick. I’m looking right at you. We just finished making out. You gave me a show earlier walking away from me that fucked with my head all day, just as you intended. You’ve demonstrated to me repeatedly your capacity for love and your loyalty is unending. You’ve cried in my arms. You’ve let me in. So trust me. He’s coming to see you.”
I got a happy quiver, but it wasn’t about Braydon.
“My sashay fucked with your head all day?”
“Jessica,” he growled.
Oo.
A growl!
And another happy quiver.
I hid it and kept focused.
“He dumped me because I was a bartender, Turner, and I thought he was on the verge of giving me a ring,” I reminded him. “And you’re kind of an overachiever, so, since we’re doing our usual and sharing the deep honesty, I’d really like to talk to you about that and make sure me not wanting to be a neurosurgeon or something isn’t gonna turn you off one day.”
“I want the woman in my life to be happy. That’s it. I don’t care what you do to be that way, just as long as I’m a part of it. Now, back to this fuckin’ guy.”
We didn’t go back to that fuckin’ guy.
Due to his answer, and how much I liked it, I put my glass down and threw myself at him.
Eric caught me.
We went at it awhile, and it was even better because I got my hands on his tight ass, and he got his hands on my not-so-tight one.
Then my phone timer went, telling me I needed to get started on the salad.
Our mouths unmeshed, but Eric didn’t let me go very far, and he did this by catching the back of my head in his hand as I angled it away.
Mm.
My guy had all the smooth moves.
“We’re not done talking about that guy,” he warned.
“He doesn’t matter.”
“When were you over?”
“I don’t know for sure, but at least two years ago.”
“So the wuss-ass knows he fucked it, and he’s such a wuss-ass, he can’t figure out how to unfuck it, and he’s staying in your orbit, hoping you’ll do the unfucking for him.”
“He doesn’t give off that vibe, Eric.”
“How long did it take you to catch my vibe?”
Oof!
Another point to ponder.
I bit my lip.
He watched me bite my lip and whispered, “Yeah.”
“I need to make salad. There’s lots to chop and slice. So I need to get on that and reset the timer for the pastitsio.”
There wasn’t a lot to chop and slice. Just an onion and a cucumber. I didn’t like tomatoes, so I got those baby ones because I knew from his food orders at SC that Eric did like them. But with the baby ones, I could eat around them without any of their slimy juice wrecking my Greek salad jam.
But I did need to reset the timer for the pastitsio.
“Not my place to say, but you should make things clear to him, Jess,” Eric advised.
“It isn’t your place to say?” I asked.
“Are we there?” he asked back.
Did that mean he thought we weren’t, or that he just didn’t know if we were?
I mean, my car was in his garage, and he liked it there.
“Did you pack a bag?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Then we’re there. So it is my place to say. As such, I’d appreciate it if you made it clear to him next time he comes in, Jess.”
I had warm fuzzies it was his place to say, so I smiled and said, “All righty then.”
“Stop being cute, or the pastitsio is gonna burn,” he warned.
I had to take a second to consider how committed I was to the perfection of the first dish I ever created.
I was leaning toward not fully committed at all when Eric spoke again.
“Babe, I’m hungry.”
There was humor in those three words.
Just as I liked it.
“You wanna help with the salad?” I asked.
“Yup,” he answered.
“I know how to slice and chop, so I need to practice my dressing chops. Can you slice and chop?”
“I can do that.”
I nabbed my wine, socked back a gulp, and said, “Let’s do this.”
He just grinned at me.
I went to the fridge.
FYI: in the end, the pastitsio was perfect.
But the only reason pursuing my new hobby of cooking solidified in my mind was seeing Eric’s face when he took the first bite.
So I decided I was going to make the Barefoot Contessa’s mocha icebox cake next.
And by next, I meant tomorrow.
The day after that, it was going to be her fettucine with mushrooms and truffle butter.