Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
He taps my nose. “Only with you. Now,” he says, “back to the omelet.”
As if I could survive the cuteness of him tapping my nose, he carries on like it never happened. “Not sure if we have ham, but I do like a Denver omelet.” Peeking over at me, he asks, “What about you?”
I really shouldn’t have liked a boop on the nose as much as I did? Should I? “Is this a test? I love them. And yes, there’s ham in the back.” I hop off the counter and go to the fridge, but he blocks me. “I got it. You just sit tight.”
“What do you mean sit tight?” I laugh. “Are you going to cook for me?”
Shrugging it off like it’s not the most amazing gesture for a chef to have another person cook for them, he says, “We need to eat.”
“Sure but isn’t that why I’m here?” I’m so confused.
“To eat?”
That’s twice he’s managed to make my eyes the size of dish saucers. “This is the test, isn’t it?”
Chuckling, he replies, “Not a test, Poppy.” Gah! The way he says my name is pure sex.
I take a breath and slowly exhale. “I guess I assumed I would be cooking.”
“Why would you think that?” He turns on the gas stove, the clicking momentarily drawing both of our attention until the fire catches.
“Umm . . .” Tilting my head, I try to reason my brain to the same wavelength as his regarding the topic.
“Let me phrase this a different way. Why would I make you cook?” He looks right at me, then rests his hand on the counter in expectation.
I slow blink a few times before diving into the bafflement of this conversation. “I guess it was an easy mistake to make since the contract states it, the non-disclosure also mentioned no-contact while cooking, the grocery money I was sent, and the week’s plan I put together making sure to respect the dietary restrictions and requests of the client.” Cupping my hand to the side of my mouth, I whisper, “The client being you.”
“Wait a minute.” Pointing at me in disbelief, he asks, “You mean to tell me you’re the cook?”
“Chef, actually, and preparing meals falls under my typical duties.” I’d move out of his personal space, but I consider the finger a welcome invasion in mine, so I stay right where I’m standing. “Why else did you think I was here?” I throw my hands up. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Me hovering around the kitchen, or having my own knives, or even me cracking terrible food jokes didn’t give it away?”
After a slow shrug, he laughs. “I thought it was a hobby, and you were being nice.”
Flailing my arms to clear the air between us, I ask, “Okay, let’s roll back in time.” I need more space to riddle my way through this puzzle, but I point at the stove anyway. “I literally cooked for you last night.”
“Good point.”
I rub my temple, unable to find the energy to keep up with this exchange, but I’m still too curious to let it go. “If you didn’t think I was the chef, who did you think I was?”
Pulling a glass from the cabinet, he tugs open the fridge for the pitcher of cold water I filled yesterday . . . as part of my job. “A stalker.”
He never ceases to amaze me, but I don’t have the words to delve into that, so I shake my head instead and ask, “Sharp or mild cheddar?”
He leans against the counter, looking all smug as if it’s all come full circle. With a grin potent enough to get me pregnant, he says, “I never knew you were a chef. That makes sense.”
I bask in his sunshine, the warmth in his eyes better than the first day of summer growing up. And then I make breakfast for the two of us.
14
Laird
She’s a professional chef.
Impressed again.
We never got around to telling many stories before our relationship got cut short. But I finally understand why Poppy has knife tattoos on her hip.
Bold like I knew she was back then. Fortunately not a psycho like I thought the other night. She’s fascinated me since the moment we met, and I feel honored to learn so much more about her now.
Time is ticking and is about to run out. A mechanic is determining our future. Wonder if I could bribe him to take his time? Not that I would do that. I’m desperate, but I still have a guaranteed twenty-four hours. I’m hoping she’ll agree to stay longer once we spend more time together.
With my feet kicked up on the coffee table, I scroll, looking for clues on how to approach amnesia. I want to remind her that we once fell madly in love and made promises and plans. But no matter what, I need to keep her safe despite wanting to selfishly rush the process.