Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Sadness flitted through her gaze.
I smiled.
“He laughed the way he always used to, scooped it up, and we made the cake. We did it every year on her birthday until he died three years ago. I still bake every year on both their birthdays because it makes me feel close to them. So… maybe if there’s something that your mum loved…”
I dipped my chin, and a low chuckle escaped me. “Believe it or not, she loved cooking and baking. That’s why we never had any kitchen staff. Mum insisted on cooking every night.”
Ellie’s face lit up. “Let’s cook dinner!”
“You want to cook.”
“I love cooking. I’m not always very good at it, mind you, but I make a mean garlic butter sauce."
I ran my tongue across my lips. “All right.”
“Really?” She beamed. “Okay, I’ll buy everything we need.”
“Ellie—”
“And baking? Ooh, I know.” She slapped her hands against my chest, pushing me back, and she skipped off towards her car before I could say anything.
I opened my mouth to speak, but she was already pulling away before I had a chance to eke anything out.
Instead, I laughed quietly and shook my head.
Jesus.
The woman was a menace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ELLIE
Greygarth House
This kitchen was huge.
I had never seen one this large in my entire life, and I think I just gawped at it like some sort of gormless squirrel for at least several minutes. The island was massive—it was clearly made for entertaining, and the light countertops perfectly offset the gorgeous, peacock green cupboards.
I was obsessed with this kitchen.
“Whoa,” I breathed.
Max laughed, tugging me out of my appreciative stupor. “It’s a kitchen.”
“Excuse me, Mr. La-di-dah,” I replied, putting my bag on the island and waving my hand over it. “Look at this thing. You could perform open heart surgery on it.”
“I’d prefer nobody did,” Max said, eyeing it. “Quite messy.”
“Indeed,” I mused. “Not to mention the blood would likely stain the countertops.”
“Slightly more morbid a view than I was going for.”
“But realistic, nonetheless.” I flashed him a grin.
“Mm.” He held my gaze for a moment and turned before he gave into the urge to smile. “Your shopping is in my fridge. Ed was all too happy to bring it over.”
“Excellent.” I hopped over to the fridge and opened it. “Wow. This is bigger than my bathroom.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Can’t. I’m a writer. Drama is what I do.”
“You are awfully peppy today.”
I grinned. “Thank you. I think it’s my new dress.”
Max scratched his stubble. “It’s a lovely dress.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets, stuck them out as far as the skirt would allow, and rocked my hips from side to side in a fancy sway. “Thanks. It has pockets.”
“That’s why I said it.”
“Such a gentleman complimenting a dress you probably don’t even care about just so I can show off the pockets.”
“I’d care a lot more about it if it were on my bedroom floor.”
“And there’s your inner fuckboy.”
He dropped his chin to his chest, and his upper body shook with a deep, rumbling laugh. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been called a fuckboy before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” I took out the new potatoes and shoved the bag in his direction. “Cut these, please.”
He took the bag, letting his laugh slowly peter out. “How would you like them cut?”
“Small. But not too small. In quarters, maybe. Six bits depending on the size.”
Max blinked at me. If he was half as confused as he looked, he had absolutely no bloody idea what I was asking him to do.
Hm.
Maybe letting him do the potatoes wasn’t a smart idea after all.
“I’ll do those,” I said, taking the bag back. “Can you do green beans?”
“I suppose it depends how many pieces you’d like them cut into.”
“Har-har,” I drawled, handing him the beans. “Just cut off the ends and slice them into about three.”
“Are you sure?”
“I will slice you into three if you’re going to keep that up.”
“I’ll just take that.” Max leant over and picked up the knife block, then made a point by carrying it to the other side of the kitchen.
Drama queen.
I held up the potatoes. “Am I supposed to cut these with a spoon?”
“You could try, but I don’t think you’d get very far.”
“May I please have a knife?”
“I’m not sure I trust you with one. Despite your peppiness, you’re also quite morbid this evening, and I’d prefer you not make use of that island.”
I stared at him. “What if I solemnly swear not to use a kitchen knife to give you heart surgery on the island?”
“It might help.”
“Then I promise not to give you heart surgery. Or an autopsy.”
Max slid a large knife from the block, paused, and looked over at me. “An autopsy?”
“I had an interesting writing session this morning,” I said slowly. “My Internet searches might have me on a government watch list.”