Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
I narrow my eyes. “Something about asses, me, and you?”
“Your ass got a good workout today.”
“No thanks to you being an ass.”
“Sticks and stones.”
“Why don’t you want coffee?” I suspect it’s the same reason for both of us, but I don’t want to “assume.”
He gestures at the large clock on the wall. “I don’t consume caffeine after five.”
Yep. “Me neither. Not unless I want to be up all night long.”
“All. Night. Long.” His eyes heat up. “If I change my order, will you?”
Is that an innuendo? “I’m sticking with chamomile. I’ll need its calming properties if I’m to spend any more time in your company.”
“Below the belt, again.” He opens the menu. “And this after we’ve found a second thing we seem to have in common.”
My stomach rumbles before I can reply.
He flashes his white teeth in a grin. “A good workout can work up an appetite.”
I open the menu in sullen silence and scan everything, unsure of what I want.
“I’ve had the ratatouille here,” he says. “And the vegetable crêpe. Both were delicious.”
I look up. “Are you vegan or something?”
If so, it’s odd that he didn’t tell me about it in the first five seconds of our acquaintance.
“I just like nutritious food, which means eating a lot of vegetables.”
Well then… “If I get a crêpe, it will be with triple cheese, double every meat, and zero veggies.”
I say it just to needle him. I actually like vegetables and eat pretty healthy myself.
He shrugs. “What you order is your prerogative. You’re not my client, and you didn’t ask me to help you eat better.”
The waiter comes back with our teas. “Do you know what you want to order?”
Ash gets the ratatouille, and despite what I said a second ago, when I order my crêpe, I ask for just one layer of cheese, a single meat, and fines herbes.
“Aren’t herbs vegetables?” Ash asks as soon as we’re alone again. “If so, you have more than zero veggies in your dish.”
“No,” I say firmly. “You only use a little bit of an herb, but a lot when it’s a vegetable.”
He smirks. “So… if someone eats only a little bit of say, spinach, for them, it becomes an herb?”
Damn him. Now I want spinach in my crêpe.
“Excuse me,” I say before chasing after the waiter to adjust my order.
When I come back, Ash looks like the cat who ate the canary—which tells me he definitely overheard me with the waiter.
“I have a craving for spinach,” I mumble.
His smirk widens. “I take full credit for that. It’s only been a short time, but I’m already a good influence on you. Spinach has a ton of vitamin K, which, among other things, helps with coagulation.”
“Coagulation, as in ability to heal wounds? Are you planning to cut me or something?”
He chokes on his mint tea. “That got dark quickly.”
I blow on my chamomile. “It’s a risk you take when you squabble about definitions.”
“You asked if herbs were vegetables, not me.” He sets his cup down. “I have a better dilemma for you. Isn’t the crêpe you ordered basically a quesadilla?”
Huh. “No, a quesadilla is closer to a grilled cheese. Next thing you’ll be asking is whether tacos are sandwiches.”
He gasps. “Tacos are not sandwiches… but hot dogs are tacos, for sure.”
I snort. “And Pop-Tarts are a type of calzone.”
He rewards me with that devastating smile of his. “Coffee is bean soup if you think about it. Cereal is also soup, or maybe even a smoothie?”
My stomach rumbles again. “Crêpes are thin pancakes.”
“Pizza is an unfolded taco.”
Before I can come up with more, the waiter comes back with the ratatouille.
“Want to try it?” Ash asks.
If I succumb to temptation, this will feel even more like a date. Then again, I’m starving, so I can’t help snatching a bite. Nor can I help the moan that escapes my lips as the delicious flavors explode on my tongue.
When I open my eyes—which I didn’t realize were closed—Ash is looking at me with a peculiarly intense expression.
I clear my throat. “Is ratatouille a stew or a casserole? And if it is a stew, is it essentially a thick soup and therefore a type of smoothie?”
Before Ash can answer, my crêpes arrive.
When we’re alone again, I taste the crêpes, and another moan escapes my lips.
“That good?” he asks, staring at my mouth.
I nod enthusiastically. “Want a taste?”
“Yes.” His eyes glint dangerously. “I really want a taste.”
Not sure what possesses me to do it, but I cut a piece, and instead of putting it on his plate like a sane person, I feed it to him, as if we were role-playing an emperor and his concubine.
Holy crap. Watching a guy chew and swallow should not be this arousing. Except it is. So much so that I wonder how crazy it would be if I were to suggest we take this food to go and head over to my place.