Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Is he kidding? “I meant that night, not ever again.”
“You don’t like my beard?”
“I didn’t say that.”
We’re flirting. In a bedroom. That’s dangerous on so many levels. “Didn’t you mention something about feeding me?”
He knows I like his beautiful beard. I can see it in his eyes. “I made some soup this morning. I can warm it on the stove.”
“You made soup?” I eye him dubiously. “As in, you opened a can?”
Michael shakes his head, staring at my lips. “No cans involved.”
“You can cook?” I reward him with a suitably shocked expression. “You’re telling me you chopped wood and rescued a stray lodge guest after slaving over a pot of homemade soup? Because that sounds like a fairytale to me.”
He grins. “Let me carry you downstairs and prove that it’s not.”
My stomach rumbles again and I refuse to blush, even when he chuckles. “Fine. You have my permission to carry me down the stairs. But only for food. And this is the last time. We’re not making this a habit.”
“Whatever you say, Win.”
The most dangerous sentence in the history of mankind, and this fool keeps repeating it.
Whatever you say.
I could say so many things right now. Kiss me. Take me. Keep me in this cabin forever.
“I’m saying carry me to my soup, Michael. And don’t forget, you promised to satisfy my curiosity as well as my appetite.”
So much flirting. Why do I never listen to my own advice?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Is the soup okay?”
“The soup is transcendent.” It’s a hearty creamy affair that is too delicious to be called something as ordinary as soup. I have to fight against my instincts not to lift the bowl and slurp it like a peasant.
“It tastes like I’m on holiday in a Tuscan villa. I’ve never been to Italy,” I add. “But this is how I imagine they eat all the time.”
He busies himself at the counter, but before his head turns, I can see his pleased smile.
After Michael carried me downstairs, I demanded to sit on a stool at the kitchen counter. I didn’t want to eat in bed with him hovering over me like I was an invalid, and I needed the bright, unforgiving kitchen lighting and some furniture between us. Everything has gotten just a little too intimate a little too quickly, and I need to get some answers.
A plate of mini chicken salad sandwiches appears in front of me. “Here.”
How did he put that together so fast?
I snag one and bite into it, tasting the herbed chicken, oranges and walnuts stuffed into a rustic roll that goes perfectly with the soup. “This is the best meal anyone’s ever made for me.”
He didn’t make it for you.
Let me keep my illusions. No man has ever fed me anything that didn’t come from a takeout container or a vending machine, because I don’t date and booty calls don’t worry about that kind of thing. So, I’m going to let myself enjoy every second of this experience.
“I doubt that.” He takes the second stool and sits across from me, finally eating himself while continuing to study my reactions.
“Seriously, Michael. My tastebuds are confused by how good this is. The middle school cafeteria isn’t as good as it sounds, Connor can’t cook worth a damn, and our budget and time are tight, so it’s usually chicken fingers or pizza rolls, along with a healthy pre-made salad mix from the store, of course.”
“Of course.”
His tone has me tossing him a teasing glare between mouthfuls. “Don’t knock the pizza rolls. They got us through college.”
“Your friend Connor is your roommate? You said upstairs you’ve had sixteen years of roommate experience.”
“It’s actually been seventeen this May.”
Saying it out loud slaps me with shock. Has it really been that long? More than half my life?
His eyes widen. “Were you twelve? Were you staying with his family, or vice versa?”
I shake my head, because either of those options would have been a nightmare.
“We were sixteen when we got our first apartment together. I’m thirty-three.”
He tips his head. “Pretty young to be living on your own.”
“We weren’t that young for our age. And we were ready. We had our official emancipation paperwork in hand, jobs lined up and money in our wallets. We lucked out with our landlady on our first try. She was the sweetest old woman. Baked us chocolate chip cookies every weekend. Then we had dinner at Val’s parents’ house once a week—usually this seafood-and-rice dish that was satisfying and always guaranteed leftovers—but other than that? It was all microwave, all the time until we were in our twenties. Then it was only seventy percent of the time.”
The face he’s making has nothing to do with my eating habits. I know, because it’s the same face everyone makes when they learn we were on our own that early. It’s why I usually keep it to myself. I don’t like the questions that follow, or the compassion mingled with pity. I don’t need it. That tiny, rundown apartment was so much better than what I’d experienced before, it felt like something to be celebrated. It was the first place that felt like an actual home. Where I was safe. Where I was welcome.