Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
She stepped out of the kitchen to see who had entered her apartment. “You don’t knock?”
I ignored the question and walked over to her, my arms snaking around her slender body until I squeezed her fine ass in my big hands. My mouth dipped to hers, and I kissed her, pulling her into me at the same time. Her protest immediately died away, and her arms hooked around my neck, her lips hungry like she’d been thinking about me long before I’d walked through that door.
I pulled away and noticed the smell of dinner in the air. “Smells good.”
It took her a moment to recover, her eyes still in a slight haze. “Roasted chicken and potatoes.”
My hands struggled to leave her waist. “Impressive.”
She stepped back into the kitchen then pulled out the serving dish from the oven. The chicken was browned on the outside, steaming with all the juices, the potatoes in the pan along the edges. It looked like it belonged on the cover of a cooking magazine.
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“It’s something I’ve always been good at.” She pulled out another pan, revealing roasted brussels sprouts.
“Chefs aren’t born. They’re made.”
“I guess I’ve always been interested in it. Folding the pages of recipes I like…trying new things.” She pulled out a couple plates from the cupboard then grabbed the silverware.
I reached out my hands. “I’ll set the table.”
She hesitated before she let me take everything.
I moved to the small dining table, big enough for just four people, and set the table for us to sit across from each other. A bottle of wine was on the counter, so I opened it and poured two glasses.
We’d never been on a date before, but we moved in rhythm like we’d lived together for years. She placed the hot dishes on the linens in the center of the table then sat down, having a sip of her wine before she did anything else.
I sat across from her, and despite how hungry I was, all I really cared about was the way she looked. She wore makeup, but not a ton of it because she was a stunning woman, a paradox because she was so gorgeous but had no idea of that truth. She wore a casual summer dress, dark blue with thin straps over her shoulders. Her hair was in soft curls, and I hoped she hadn’t spent too much time styling it because I was about to destroy it when dinner was over.
I let her serve herself first before I dumped the food onto my plate, slices of juicy chicken with the golden pieces of potatoes. When I had my first bite, I nodded in appreciation. “You can fuck…you can cook…what else can you do?”
She smirked as she looked at me. “Well, I didn’t do much of the fucking…”
“You’ll get your chance, Pretty.”
Her smart eyes studied me. “You’re really going to call me that?”
All I did was stare.
“I guess that’s a yes.” She took a bite of her food.
We descended into tense silence, both of us eating as we stared at each other across the table. There was still a little light out of the window, the sky a beautiful combination of gentle colors. It blanketed her face in the most exquisite glow.
“So…how was your day?”
I shrugged. “Same old shit.”
“What does that mean?”
“Work never sleeps.”
“You never take a day off?”
I shook my head. “Too busy for that.”
“So all you do is work?” she asked.
“Other than drink and fuck, yes.”
“My father doesn’t work like that.”
“He does,” I said. “You just don’t realize it. Even if he’s sitting there at dinner with you, he’s thinking about a bunch of other shit in his mind.” Just as I was doing that very moment, ignoring the emails and texts that vibrated my phone in my pocket.
“He seems present to me.”
Because he was a two-faced psychopath. “You two are close.”
“You aren’t close with your parents?”
My parents wished I’d never been born. “No.”
A memory seemed to come back to her because her eyes deepened. “I remember you mentioning that now.” Then there was pity, a deep wave of it.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I hate that shit.”
“It’s called empathy.”
“Whatever,” I snapped. “I don’t want it.”
“What happened with your parents?” she asked gently, her voice tiptoeing around me.
I hesitated before I answered, choosing to focus on the savory meal she’d made. My eyes were down, thinking of the best way to phrase it and keep it veiled. “They disowned me.”
“Why?” she asked.
This was the most open conversation we’d ever had, but I wanted her to be open, not me. “They’re assholes. I’ll leave it at that.”
It was clear she wanted to press me further, but she allowed me to dismiss it. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened with your mother?” She was never mentioned. There were no photographs in the house. It was as if Dante had given birth to her and raised her entirely on his own.