Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I head straight to the cupboard with the saucepans. It takes me about three seconds to discover that I’m not the only one in the kitchen.
A bare-chested Dax is leaning at the kitchen counter right in front of me, and I jump so high, I nearly hit Mars.
“Oh hi,” I say.
He looks at me, looks away, then does a double-take. I probably should buy a dressing gown. He shifts and lifts his plate up as if to offer explanation. I try to focus on what he’s eating and not on the way his jogging trousers hang low on his hips, or the way a trail of hair disappears under the waistband. Looks like he’s eating peanut butter on toast.
“You’re in the dark,” I say.
He shrugs but doesn’t offer further explanation.
“I’m just going to make myself some hot milk. Do you want some?” This shouldn’t become a routine. Dax eats late, I make myself a hot drink. We bump into each other, neither of us wearing much.
Maybe I should get a kettle for my room.
He turns to face me and I have to look away. The way the muscles in his arms tense and relax—it’s too much. “No thanks.”
If I’d known he was going to be in here, I would have sacrificed hot milk. It’s definitely not worth being in such close proximity to my ridiculously hot, taciturn boss. I need to focus on the negative.
The negative.
The negative.
He didn’t hire me right away. He’s a little rude. Unwelcoming. Doesn’t like small talk. Complained about the carful of personal items I brought on move-in day, and implied I might be a bit of a clutterbug.
That’s better.
“Guinevere sleeping?” I ask as I pour milk into a pan.
“No, we’re playing backgammon. It’s her turn so I’m taking the opportunity to have a snack.”
On instinct, I turn to see his expression. He’s not laughing. But he doesn’t look like he’s irritated either.
“I didn’t know she played,” I reply. “I’ll be sure to have a couple of games with her tomorrow.”
“You play?” he asks, surprised.
“Since I was five years old.”
He doesn’t respond straight away. Instead he takes a bite of his toast and chews for the longest time.
“I have a set,” he says finally.
I focus on the pan of milk on the hob. Stirring it with the wooden spoon will help it boil more quickly. Or not at all.
“Let me know if you ever want a game.” I want to slap my palm on my face. I don’t know what made me say it. I don’t need a reason to be in close proximity to him. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. I need to find excuses not to be near him.
More silence. Then, “Sure. I’ll play you.”
He stands upright, and I squeeze my eyes shut, facing my milk. I don’t need any more images of his bare chest scorched into my brain for eternity. I feel him head toward me and even though I know he’s just going to pass by, I try to hold still like any sharp movements could lead to an animal attack.
The air moves with him and I get a waft of his scent. Grassy and earthy, like a summer afternoon paddling in streams, poking at stones and picking wildflowers. It feels fresh and free with undertones of the wild.
I take a deep breath after he leaves the room and try to refocus on the milk, which is starting to bubble. I stand on tiptoes and reach for a cup from the top shelf.
“You want me to get that for you?” he asks, appearing out of nowhere.
Before I can respond, the heat of Dax’s body is behind me and our fingers catch as we both reach for the same mug.
I pull my hand away, but as I set my heels on the floor, my back presses lightly against his chest.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though he hasn’t done anything. He moves away slightly and sets the mug on the counter.
“Thanks,” I say, sending up a little prayer that he can’t see the flush on my burning-hot face. I focus on pouring out my milk.
He lifts the leather case he’s carrying. “I found it.” As he passes by, he sweeps his hand over the light switches and the overhead light turns off, replaced by low lighting under the kitchen cabinets.
I slide my hand around the cup and take a seat opposite him at the kitchen table, the backgammon set between us. Why am I here? I should make an excuse to leave. I’ll play one quick game then say I have to call Eddie or something.
“I have something for you.” I reach into my pajama pocket and pull out the two white circular disks, threaded with ribbon and wrapped in tissue paper.
He frowns as I hand him the gift. “What is it?”
I don’t answer, just sip my milk, waiting for him to open it.