Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Mr. Abrams returned shortly after with a white paper bag, and he told me to have a seat at the table.
Having breakfast here indicated I wouldn’t be making a hasty exit.
Just pointing that out.
I didn’t dare defy him, though. I’d been doing that by pushing his buttons all week.
I made my way to the round table and sat down at a respectable distance. In the meantime, Mr. Abrams went behind the kitchen island and unpacked whatever he’d ordered for me.
“I took a shot in the dark and followed the holiday party’s hashtag on social media,” he said conversationally. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you tagged in oh-so many photos and videos.”
Gulp.
He poured a bottle of OJ into a glass, followed by some hot beverage into a mug. “You’re quite the clown around friends. Quite the drinker…” That one earned me a raised brow. “And quite the performer.”
He must’ve seen footage of Kim and me dancing.
“From there, it was easy to locate your own account and find out what you like to eat,” he said, plating something in a wrap. “Because as we all know, you can’t be on social media and not let friends know what you had for lunch. Dinner… Breakfast.” With that said, he gathered everything on a tray and returned to the table.
If I had been dumbfounded before, it had nothing on now.
He was supposed to yell at me—or, which was more apt to his character, quietly tell me to leave and never come back. Instead…he’d bought me juice, hot cocoa, a breakfast sandwich, and friggin’ pancakes.
“How’s your head this morning?” he wondered and sat down again. With his espresso and some tiny cookie. It looked like a biscotti. Typical Nespresso Daddy, I decided. “After I put you to bed last night, I was going to get you a couple painkillers, but when I came back to the guest room, you were in the process of taking off all your clothes.”
“Oh, of course I was.” I scrubbed at my face, beyond mortified. “This would be the perfect time for the ground to swallow me whole.”
He chuckled. He actually chuckled.
I looked up from my hands, and damn, his smile reached his eyes. It was the hottest sight I’d seen all year.
Then it faded, and he motioned to my food with his cup. “Eat your breakfast.”
Yes, sir.
“What about you?” I tucked into my pancakes with gusto and filled my mouth. “A cookie iffn’t breakfaft.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, just a pinch of mirth lingering. “Swallow before you talk.”
Oh, right. Yeah. I knew that.
“Are they good?” he asked.
“Very. But they’d be even better with more syrup.” I had to be honest. “And my head is okay, by the way. The shower helped.”
“Good, I’m glad.” He rose from his seat and headed over to the kitchen again. “I spent most of my thirties in both Rome and LA. This is what I had for breakfast every day in Italy.”
An espresso and a tiny cookie? That sounded boring.
“Maybe Italians should stick to pasta and pizza,” I said. “Do you by any chance have whipped cream? I already owe you the biggest gift basket known to man. I figure why not go all the way.”
“You lost me. Why do you owe me a gift basket?” When he came back, he had both syrup and whipped cream. Fucking yum. “You’re going to end up in a food coma.”
“That’s my kind of coma.” I grinned gleefully and sprayed a bunch of cream onto my cocoa, then poured lots and lots of syrup onto my pancakes.
“Hm.” Mr. Abrams clearly didn’t agree with me. “Answer my question, Parker.”
What ques—oh. “To show you how sorry I am, obviously. For stepping over the line last night. And for being pushy and stuff all week.” I poured a little bit more— “Hey!”
He’d stolen the maple syrup from me.
“I think that’s enough sugar.”
I pouted.
He merely dipped his biscotti in his coffee and took a bite, all while watching me, and it was becoming unnerving. This whole morning, in fact. It hadn’t ended the way I’d imagined or anticipated. He wasn’t mad—I didn’t think so, at least. He’d barely acknowledged my apology, which had been cut off.
Before last night, he’d been seemingly eager to get rid of me as quickly as possible whenever we’d been in the same space. Now I’d learned he’d checked out my social media to find out what foods I liked, and he’d asked around about me at work.
I bit into my breakfast sandwich instead, and it was amazing. Eggs, melted cheese, and sausage on a croissant. Heaven!
“You don’t owe me a gift basket of any sort,” he said after a while. “I appreciate your apology, but that’s unnecessary too. It’s been an interesting week.”
Interesting?
Interesting?!
“I’ve learned a lot.” He smiled to himself and took a sip of his coffee.