Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Was he telling me, or himself?
“Because you don’t date.” Except I’d seen him out on one, hadn’t I?
“No, because Colin would never allow it. Remember?”
I pressed my lips together as I considered his statement. I understood he was taking on a huge risk and life would certainly be easier for him if he steered clear of me.
And yet . . . he didn’t.
Was it possible he felt the same inescapable pull toward me as I felt toward him? God, I hoped so.
“But you do date,” I said quietly. “You were out one when you were seated next to me and my mom.”
“Yeah.”
That was the only response he was going to give me? My heart beat too fast for my thoughts to keep up with it. “Are you going to see her again?”
He grimaced. “No.”
“What about other people?” I dreaded what his answer might be. “Will you be seeing them,” I tried to sound casual, “while you’re giving me lessons?”
He turned his head slowly to face me, and his expression was unreadable. “No.” He paused. “And it’ll be the same for you.”
I was more than fine with that, but . . . “If we’re hanging out and fooling around, and we’re exclusive to each other, that kind of sounds like we’re dating.”
“No,” he grumbled. “We’re not.”
I stifled the urge to smile and lifted my hands in mock surrender. “Okay.”
He was uncomfortable with the label, and there was no reason to have it, anyway, since no one—outside of my parents—was supposed to think we were together. So, it was best to drop it.
But a sarcastic voice filled my head, drowning everything else out.
Every time we’d been together, he’d given me blistering, all-consuming kisses, but—sure. He could continue to claim we were just friends. It wasn’t like sleeping together was going to change anything.
Right?
TEN
Sydney
Preston sat at one of the stools at the bar in my parents’ kitchen, watching me as I dropped a half a stick of butter into a large sauté pan. When I’d told him I needed twenty minutes to bring the dish together, he’d pulled his phone out like he was going to give it all his attention and leave me to work in silence.
But he hadn’t.
His iPhone sat on the counter, completely forgotten from the moment I put on an apron. It was an old one from my first job as a line cook. The black apron had lasted much longer than the restaurant—the little upstart Italian place, Vesuvio’s, had shuttered its doors just six months after opening.
“I learned so much at that place,” I told him. “It’s just a shame a lot of it was what not to do.”
As I waited for the deep pot of water on one burner to come to a boil, I gathered the rest of my ingredients for the sauce. Cream, parmesan, garlic, chicken stock, and a lemon for acidity. I felt Preston’s gaze on me as I moved with efficiency. Salt was tossed into the pot of water, and then I retrieved a cutting board and knife from my section of the kitchen.
His focus went from one side of the counter to the other. Was he wondering why there were two knife blocks? Two different containers of utensils like spatulas and spoons?
I gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m kind of protective of my stuff. Especially my knives.” Because my parents didn’t cook much, and when they did—they were careless. “I don’t know when the last time was they had theirs sharpened.” Not to mention, mine were much higher quality.
Practically all the money I made went into building my collection of tools and specialty items. For Christmas, I’d gotten the pasta machine I’d asked for, and since we were running low on cabinet space, I’d had to bring it down from my bedroom this morning to roll out the dough for the raviolis.
I smashed the cloves of garlic under the thick blade of my knife, peeling away the skin, and got to mincing them. As the sharp edge of the blade rocked back and forth, making quick cuts, his focus dropped to it.
Or maybe he was looking at my hands. Did he notice the two scars dotting my fingers? I’d burned and nicked myself more than a few times over the last three years while doing prep work, but only two had been gnarly enough to leave scars. I wasn’t ashamed of them—I wore them with pride. Every decent chef had them, along with desensitized hands from grabbing hot pans.
I’d earned my hands of steel after working many nights as the expediter at the window. The heavy plates waited under powerful heat lamps to keep the dishes warm, and sometimes they sat too long, baking the ceramic to well above one-hundred-fifty degrees.
He seemed fascinated as I worked, and it caused an excited flutter inside me.