Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
I threw her fridge open. She had salads organized in containers with dated Post-it Notes on them on one side, and homemade dressings in small sealed cups on the other. Bottled water. Fresh fruit. And were these . . . pickled eggs? Or her enemies’ eyeballs?
“Just got back.” She crossed her arms, watching me hawkishly. “From a Renaissance fair.”
“Fan of the time period?” I took a bottled water, closed the fridge with my boot, and plopped on her couch.
“Oh, I couldn’t give a toss about the period.” She stomped around the tiny space, then stopped in front of me, tugged at a shawl I was sitting on, and wrapped it around her shoulders to hide her cleavage. “I went with my boyf . . . ex-boyfriend. He’s rather fond of lager.”
Can’t blame him, considering who he dates.
“Ex-boyfriend, huh?” I arched an eyebrow. “That’s one hell of a thing to tell your fiancé.”
“My fiancé hit on my colleague,” she said in a deadpan.
“Technically, she hit on me. What made you go then?” I sat back. “I’m sure even you aren’t so masochistic as to willingly hang out with your former boyfriend.”
She stopped tramping about and shot me an unsure glance. “If I tell you, you’d laugh.”
Putting a hand on my chest, I said, “Sorry to break it to you, but I’ll be making fun of you no matter what. It’s carved into my genetic alphabet. Better start getting used to it.”
She sighed. “Well, a big part of it was to show him I was unbothered by the sudden breakup. We’d discussed going weeks ago.”
“And the small part?” I tilted my chin down, scanning her face.
“I’m always on the lookout for the perfect American waffle, and the Renaissance fair seemed like a good destination.”
“‘Perfect American waffle’?” Was that a euphemism? A dirty one? Maybe we could get along after all.
She made her way to a recliner and sat down, spine stiff, hands perched in her lap. “Growing up, I’d heard so much about Americans having the best waffles in the world. I hadn’t actually tasted a waffle until I was about thirteen. I grew up watching others eat them on TV. They always looked fluffy and airy and just . . .” She trailed off, staring at the ceiling dreamily. “Perfect. Something about the symmetry of a waffle just called out to me. So when I moved here, I decided to find it. The perfect American waffle. The best this country has to offer. I take every chance I get to taste new waffles. I always order them whenever I’m at a new diner. I’ve tried maybe a hundred waffles since I moved to the States.”
This was both impressive and peculiar. I liked people with a mission. Even if that mission was to get type 2 diabetes.
“Please tell me you keep a list of places on your hard drive and rank them.” I knocked back the rest of the water. “That’s such a Daphne Bates thing to do.”
“Daphne Markham,” she corrected sternly. “And don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Her cheeks pinked, and she tossed her hair snootily. “Actually, the list is in a journal.”
I pressed my knuckles to my lips, stifling a laugh. “The pages are laminated, aren’t they?”
“And if they are? Accidents happen all the time. Better be safe than sorry.”
Now I was full blown laughing. I couldn’t believe this person was real. I thought women like her only existed in Colin Firth movies, where it takes him two agonizing hours to win her over, even though she has no redeeming qualities other than quirkiness.
“So how were the Renaissance fair waffles?” I leaned forward, oddly invested.
“Dreadful!” She tossed her hands in the air. “I reckon they were frozen.”
“Sacrilege.” I pretended to gag.
She grinned before seemingly remembering I was the enemy and pinching her eyebrows together. “So what brought you here?”
“Business.” I plucked my phone out of my front pocket and popped the USCIS website on. “Just had drinks with a lawyer friend, and he pointed out we need to jump through several hoops to make sure we’re eligible for your visa thingy. Did you know it was a pain in the ass?”
By the way her cheeks ripened into a bright-red blush, I figured the answer was both Yes and Bugger, he found out. I was 110 percent sure she loved the word bugger.
“I’m sorry.” She winced. “I was at a point of disadvantage. I thought you wouldn’t want to do it—”
“I didn’t want to do it,” I confirmed.
“Well, yes. Precisely.”
There was a pause, in which I briefly contemplated drinking my own weight in bleach in order to remove myself from the situation.
“We’ll have to move in together for real. They could come here and check,” I said, repeating what Christian had said to me at the bar.
“That’s not an issue. You may live here rent-free. Provided you do your chores, of course.”