Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I take a fork and scoop up the plate and head back into the living area. I set the plate on the dining table after I find a mat. Then I realize, he’ll definitely need a drink. I head back into the refrigerator and pour a glass of milk. I consider warming it and then I tell myself not to be a try hard.
I come back into the living room with the drink and then wonder if I have, in fact, turned into a complete psycho.
I’m just about to grab the plate and dump the eggs in the trash when Ben appears wearing nothing but boxers, his hair damp from the shower.
My heart leaps in my chest like it’s trying to leave my body and check his out more closely.
When he sees me at the dining table, his mouth curves into a smile. “Did you make me an omelet?”
I shrug. “It won’t be as good as yours, but…”
He comes toward me, and my pulse trips under my skin as if he might kiss me. And of course he’s not going to kiss me, he’s just coming to get his omelet. But if he was about to kiss me, I’m not sure I’d be unhappy about it.
Scratch that. Of course, I’d be unhappy about it. He’d have won, it would be proof we couldn’t keep it professional, and he wouldn’t help me with the Boston hotel. Boston is my priority, not kissing Ben. Again.
Absolutely not.
He slides into the chair in front of where I’ve set down the omelet. “You must really want my help, right?”
His comment throws me off for a second. “What?”
He nods toward his plate and picks up his fork. “If you’re cooking me omelets at this time of night, you must really want my help.”
“The omelet’s not a bribe. It’s food. You looked kinda sad when you came in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that. I was trying to cheer you up.”
He holds my gaze for a second, as if what I’m saying is soaking into his brain. He doesn’t say anything. He turns back to his plate. “Okay, so let’s see how this omelet is.”
He cuts a mouthful with his fork and I watch as he lifts it. I look away, catching myself focusing on his full lips, his sharp jaw, the tendons in his neck and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
He nods. “It’s good,” he says. “Perfect amount of cheese.”
I try not to smile at his compliment. It’s a goddamn omelet, I didn’t serve up a ten-course banquet, but it feels good that he approves.
“You have more practice at omelets than me.”
“It’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”
I roll my eyes, because I don’t appreciate the sarcasm when I’m actually being genuine.
He reaches out, grabs my wrist, and pulls me down on the chair kitty corner to his. “I’m serious. I’m not sure I can remember anyone apart from my parents cooking for me without me paying a check at the end of the night.”
“Probably because you’re the one who likes to cook.”
“For myself,” he says.
“You don’t cook for other people?”
He pulls in a breath. “Not really.” He takes another bite of omelet, and I try not to watch him, but it’s difficult because all I want to do is look at him.
“You cooked for me.”
He doesn’t say anything, he just takes another bite of omelet.
“I’m sure that’s all part of your seduction routine,” I say. “Make the girl an omelet…”
He chuckles. “You think that an omelet would improve my hit rate?”
I shrug. “Worked on me.”
He grins and takes another mouthful of omelet.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I deliberately don’t look at him as he works his way through his eggs. When he’s finished, he takes his glass of milk and drinks it all down.
“I told you, I’ve never brought a woman here before. Never cooked for a woman. Not before you.”
I know it’s not meant to be a compliment. It’s meant to simply inform—be factual. But a warm ember of comfort lights deep inside me.
“That’s hard to believe,” I say. “You’re a mean omelet maker.”
He chuckles. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Coming from you, I’ll take it. So how was tonight? I take it the food wasn’t good.” I glance down at his clean plate.
“I rarely eat at these things. It’s work, so I’m never focused on the food.”
“Where did you go?”
“An awards ceremony for design and architecture,” he says.
“Really? And that was work?”
He shrugs.
“And you didn’t enjoy it?”
He pulls in a breath, slowly, like he’s really trying to think about my question. “I don’t think I did.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I spoke to the two people there I needed to speak to. One of them was sitting next to me. I accomplished my goal for the evening. So it was a successful night.”