Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
The music is louder, and the sound of a pan scraping against the metal grate reaches my ears. The scent of cumin and the onions cooking fills the air. I keep walking until I see the light of the kitchen shining bright against the backdrop of night.
The smell of the food.
The beat of the song.
The hour.
All is too familiar.
I rub my eyes, making sure I’m not imagining things or trapped in a nightmare. I see her first—a white T-shirt that looks like one of mine. Her hair is down and the strands a mess from rolling around in the bed. She’s incredibly sexy. If she wanted to distract me, she’s doing an excellent job.
It would be so easy to tempt me back to bed if suspicion—confusion—wasn’t sitting like a rock at the bottom of my stomach. I’m tired and not thinking clearly. That has to be because this is just too familiar. And extremely odd.
While she’s happily humming, not in time with the song at all, under the bright lights of the kitchen, I try to figure out how to approach without startling her. I’m not sure how to make my presence known otherwise. I move from the shadows and grip the back of a dining room chair. “Hi.”
Whipping her gaze to the side, she finds me in the dim lights, and joy fills her eyes. “Hi there, sleepyhead. Thought you’d never wake up.”
“Most people are sleeping at four thirty in the morning.” I hate how serious I sound, cautious as if she’s a snake ready to strike. Innocent before proven guilty, I remind myself. “What are you doing?”
“Making tacos.” Her tone is lighthearted as if this is perfectly normal. “Since you didn’t have tortillas, I’m using lettuce wraps and calling it taco fusion.” Pondering that thought, she adds, “Maybe they should be taco wraps?”
“That works.”
She browns the ground beef as I take in the scene before me.
The island is covered with containers and the knives and utensils she’s been using to cook. A part of an onion is chopped on a cutting board, and diced tomatoes fill a bowl. Cheddar cheese is grated on a plate, and leaves of lettuce are drying on paper towels. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not long,” she replies, trading the spatula for the knife on the cutting board. After a few chops, she lowers it as she comes closer. “I like to think I can cook better than I do. I’m a work in progress.” It’s the first I get of the full view of her. Legs that haven’t seen the sun for a while dip out from under the hem of the shirt. They’re toned, shapely, and I have visions of how they looked wrapped around me that make me hard again. She says, “No kiss for the chef?”
I kiss her, wishing I was kissing her like earlier in the night. But trust has diminished, and I don’t deal well with lying despite my dick’s wishes. She licks her lips and asks, “Hungry? I’m starved.” Dicing the rest of the onion, she says, “I don’t know if you realize, but we missed dinner.”
“I didn’t.”
“Neither did I until my growling stomach woke me up.”
“Do you cook much?”
She sets the knife down to tend to the skillet, not letting me stop her one bit. Clicking it off, she says, “It’s done. Now we eat.” So easily distracting . . . but is it on purpose?
Moving to the other side of the island, I say, “I don’t.”
“You don’t what?” Handing me a plate, she adds, “Help yourself seems rude since it’s your food. But yeah, help yourself or I can make you a plate?”
I fucking hate that my stomach growls, my traitorous body making it difficult to stay on track. I have to. This conversation is long overdue.
“One or two tacos?” she asks, holding up the lettuce.
“Two.” Yeah. Yeah. I know. I’m such a guy who’s easily pleased. Sex. Food. Money. I’m that asshole. Seeing her take such care in putting the toppings on each leaf of lettuce has me softening the accusations in my head. Why am I mad?
She’s never told me where she lives. Technically, she hasn’t therefore lied. I think. Yet . . . this doesn’t sit right with me.
Why is she hiding something so basic as where she lives?
I stare at her, trying to figure out my angle, but then my gaze dips to the taco buffet. The best approach is direct, kind, and on a full belly. But this is so incredibly confusing.
My gut has never led me wrong, but I’m starting to think I’m just hungry.
Carrying her plate, she kisses my bicep when she passes. So much sweetness in the gesture that I hate to ruin the mood. I watch as she settles on the couch and starts to eat. I’m blowing this out of proportion. It has to be a coincidence—the music and food, cooking at odd hours.