Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
His brown eyes darken momentarily, and I’d give anything in the world to know what he was thinking of at that very moment, but the second fades away and he pulls out a small notepad in his pocket. “I was thinking we could have three options. A filet option, grouper, and a vegetarian meal option. Maybe a pasta primavera.”
“I think that’s a great idea. It’s a plated dinner for thirty people, so I want to make sure we pick things that won’t kill your food costs.”
Griffin raises a brow. “Let me worry about my food costs. I just want to make sure the guests are happy enough to tell their friends, and this private party thing works out.”
“Thank you.” I want to hug him. I want to fling my arms around his shoulders and squeeze him tight. However, I don’t.
Griffin and I have never had that touchy-feely type of relationship. In fact, we don’t really have anything, and I want to change all of that.
If we’re going to be working together, I want to get to know him. He’s practically an Atwood by association and I don’t know much about him.
It’s a shame, I think as I study his broad shoulders.
He takes off his chef’s coat, and a tattoo peeks out from under the sleeve of his white shirt.
“Is that a tattoo?” I ask him, stepping closer to get a peek.
Griffin smiles, raising the sleeve of his shirt to showcase his artwork. “Yeah, got it a few years ago.”
“Oh wow,” I say, taking in the various chef’s knives displayed in a design that wraps around his bicep. “I love it. You really love cooking, huh?”
Griffin drops his sleeve, letting it hide his tattoo, and leans against the railing of the stairs that lead up to the restaurant. “It was an escape for me growing up. I could take this handful of ingredients and create this masterpiece in the kitchen. It was almost like art.”
“I burn toast,” I admit to him.
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
I nod. “No, it is. I’m a disaster in the kitchen. During college I ate out for pretty much every meal. It’s actually been kind of nice living back home and having my mother making home cooked meals every night.”
“Yeah, your mother helped teach me how to cook a few things.”
“Really? I never knew that.”
When Griffin was most likely learning to cook at my house, I was probably busy playing with dolls in my room. Griffin’s always been Callum’s friend, and much older than me. But now, the four years spreading between us don’t seem like much.
Griffin cracks a grin. “Yeah, I loved spending time at your house while I was in high school. It was like a second home.” He glances down at his feet. “A better home, anyway,” he says under his breath.
I don’t push for more of that info, just file it away for later, because there’s one thing I’m certain of…I want to know more about this man.
“It’s weird being home again.”
“I bet. But I’m sure your mother loves having you there.”
I beam. “She does. A little bit too much. She’s trying to cook for me all the time. I don’t think she ever wants me to leave. I would like to learn to cook.”
Griffin pushes forward, standing to his full height. “I can teach you.”
I shake my head. “No, you’re already way too busy, and I really think you and I have our hands full with the parties. I’m not a complete mess in the kitchen. I do make chocolates.”
Griffin studies me for a moment. “You make those?”
“What? Have you had some?”
“Yeah, Callum has given me some, saying they’re from home. I figured your mother made them. I really like the raspberry-flavored ones.”
“Those are my favorites too. And yes, I make them.”
“Wow, I’m impressed. You should make them for the parties. Wrap them, and you can give them out at the end of the party. Or have them on the place setting for when they sit down.”
“I never thought of that.” I smile, loving the idea Griffin’s come up with. I glance at my phone, noticing the time. “We should get going. It’s late.” I hate keeping Griffin late, because I know he has to be back here bright and early tomorrow morning. I feel bad.
“Stay here. I’ll run and get your notebook. What color is it?”
I shake my head. “No way.” I rush up the stairs, and Griffin follows quickly behind. “I don’t want you flipping through it.”
He laughs. “Is it like a diary?”
I reach the landing, and make my way to the back of the restaurant to the room where the parties will be held. I swipe my pink notebook off the table and hug it close, breathing hard. “Maybe.”
Griffin stands at the door, watching, waiting, leaning against the door jamb. A smirk graces his face, and he crosses his arms. “Now I’m intrigued.”