Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
There’s a count of silence and then he looks me dead in the eye. “I’m sleeping on the sofa.” His voice is deep and serious and full of concentrated masculinity. It’s so intense I have to look away and place my hand on the table to stop myself from toppling over.
I know there’s no point in arguing.
Fifteen
Zach
My mind drifts back to the first thought I had this morning when I woke up. It’s the same thought that has come back to me at various points in the day today: I’m fucked.
Because…Ellie.
I can hear her move between the kitchen and the living room. I saw her this morning but we had something to discuss and focus on. She wanted to use the car to go down into the village to buy more supplies. I gave her tips for getting down there without getting stuck, and which shops she could get what in. Then around midday, she asked if I would like some lunch, and delivered me the best chicken sandwich I’ve ever eaten.
Today’s been fine. But it’s tonight I’m worried about. Tonight as we sit across from each other at dinner and I try not to notice the outline of her chest, or how her eyes seem to look bluer in this northern light. As I try not to be amused by the way she’s incapable of hiding what she’s thinking but still has a layer of mystery I’m almost desperate to uncover. Most of the time she just says what’s on her mind and the rest of the time it’s written on her face. And it’s because of that, I know she’s also feeling this…energy between us.
I check the time on my laptop. It’s nearly eight and I catch the smell of…is it bread? Or cinnamon? The aroma of something fucking delicious is drifting through to the bedroom.
I wish it was only the food I’m looking forward to this evening.
Opening the bedroom door, I find Ellie leaning over the sofa, rearranging the cushions. I can see down her shirt.
Fuck. I close my eyes, the image of white lace and milky-white skin is scorched onto the back of my eyelids.
“Hey,” she says and I open my eyes. “I was wondering when you would appear. Dinner is about ten minutes out. Can I get you a glass of wine?”
I should say no. “You’re not my servant, Ellie. I don’t expect you to—”
She grins. “I know. You know I love to cook.”
Silence twists between us.
“Okay, you get the wine,” she says, “and I’ll finish off here.”
Honestly, a glass of wine right now is exactly what I want, even though I’m a little concerned it might loosen the already shaky boundaries between Ellie and me that come with sharing such a small space.
I head into the kitchen and find a bottle of red on the kitchen counter. I take the corkscrew from the drawer just as Ellie comes in.
“Chicken piccata with lemon garlic rice and green beans tonight,” she says as she bends over to look through the oven window.
She’s wearing jeans that look like she poured herself into them and I don’t hate it. Her arse isn’t chasing Kim Kardashian for attention but there’s a good handful there and—
I need to get a grip. “Sounds great, although I don’t know what piccata is.”
She stands and beams at me. “Great! You’ll love it.” She’s radiating something I haven’t seen before. Or maybe I’ve caught glimpses of it. Whenever she talks about food, she lights up.
“I’m sure I will.” I take two glasses and the bottle over to the table to get out of the way. “Anything I can do other than pour the wine?”
“I’m just plating up and then that’s it. Oh and I baked some bread, so we have that as well if we want to get good and carbed. I don’t know about you, but first of November kicks in and I just want to eat one hundred percent carbs. I guess our basic human instincts never leave us.” She catches my eye, and I swear to God, I think I’m blushing. The basic instinct I’m having right now has nothing to do with carbs and everything to do with unpeeling her jeans from her and kissing her between her thighs.
My expression must be giving me away because she looks away, a little flushed.
“Here.” She sets the food on the table and smiles at me. “Bon app.”
I place her wine down on the table and she raises her glass.
“Thank you,” I blurt. “For cooking,” I clarify, although I’m not sure that’s what I’m thanking her for. “It looks delicious.” It’s like something I’d expect to see in a restaurant and smells better.
“It’s my total pleasure. I love cooking, but what’s even better is cooking for someone other than myself.”
“Does it matter who it is?”