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)
I knew I should have changed. If he was going to be staring at my breasts, at least it could have been with a little fanfare to celebrate them. A cute little ruffle trim or a V where the dress dips.
Any change now would be too much in both our faces, so I ask, “Are we drinking tonight?” I sound like someone who buries their troubles at the bottom of a bottle of wine nightly.
Sitting forward as if he’s been called to duty, he asks, “What are you drinking?” Bartender in a former life?
“I brought beer, whiskey, and wine. Those were on the dossier.”
“I don’t remember requesting wine.” Surprise infiltrates his words, but his expression remains neutral.
“No, that’s for me. I brought it just in case.”
Easing into a smile, he chuckles. “In case of?”
“Not all jobs are created equal. I never know what I’m walking into. A client obsessed with Principle One racing or one who sunbathes in the nude for everyone to see. I get requests for obscure meats from the jungles of the Amazon, which is a no from me or to cook wearing nothing but an apron. So yeah, I bring wine to have on hand because it’s necessary some days.”
“You, in nothing but an apron. I didn’t know that was an option.”
I burst out laughing. “It’s not.” Though Laird is making me reconsider my stance on the matter. “Doesn’t stop some from requesting it anyway. Call me boring or run-of-the-mill, but I just want to cook innovative foods or even traditional meals with a twist. I like feeding families, impressing industry titans, and sometimes I even work with elusive celebrities.”
“How did I end up here?” I ask.
He shakes his head, glancing toward the kitchen. Rubbing the back of his neck, he’s unsettled in his composure as if I’ve hit a nerve. “I’m going to have something stronger. What can I get you?” He leaves, causing me to question what I said wrong.
I angle myself to watch him for any signs that might clue me in. Since I’ve already crossed many lines with him, stronger doesn’t sound so bad right now. “Whatever you’re drinking.”
“I didn’t plan the trip, but things were put in place to make it easier for me to agree.”
“Things like me.”
With the bottle of whiskey in his hand, he pauses with his back to me. The light from the fire doesn’t extend that far, so I can’t make out his expression, but I have a feeling it’s not full of the welcoming fuzzies I was given when I first came out here.
“I didn’t mean it—”
“I know,” I say, believing him. I turn back around, keeping my eyes on the fire. “I’m not offended. I’m part of the staff, though, and you keep making me forget that.”
“I prefer it that way,” he says, not missing a beat. “I don’t need staff. I rarely have it at home. If I’m not traveling, I occasionally get my place cleaned because I’m a fucking mess and don’t do a great job at it. Sometimes I pay someone to stock my fridge. Otherwise, I’m on my own.”
A lowball glass appears over my shoulder. I glance up and meet his eyes as I reach up to take the whiskey. I wouldn’t call it a standoff, but no one makes the first move after that. I don’t know what comes over me. I can’t blame the alcohol since I haven’t even taken a sip. “I don’t want to overstep, but the way information is being disseminated leaves my imagination to run wild. It’s not my place to pry—”
“Your place is as a guest of mine, Poppy.” Releasing the glass, he returns to the chair closest to where I’m seated on the couch. “No requirements. No demands. I want you to enjoy your time here if you can. Obviously, the weather might put a damper on things—”
“The weather is fine.” I tip my glass toward the fireplace. “This is nice. No complaints. Cheers.” I take a long pull of the drink, unable to hold eye contact under the fire he lights in me. Instead, I let the alcohol warm me as it slides down my throat while he does the same. “You’re making me work hard for the double pay,” I tease.
I’ve heard him laugh quite a bit, but the deep and genuine sound of it filling the intimate space is my favorite. He replies, “Worth every dollar.”
But there’s no laughter attributed this time. He sounds like he means it. “You’re making me feel bad for sitting on my ass and making you do all the work.” I don’t actually feel bad. I quite enjoy him being in service to me for cocktail hour.
His expression shows no sign of quibbling over money. I’m not sure what to think about that. I can’t have him pay, especially when he’s now serving me. When he gets up once more, I stay snuggled on the couch under a blanket he procured for me earlier.