Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
I can already tell that Donovan used a few oranges to make me a glass of freshly squeezed juice. The evidence of that is sitting near an electric juicer in the form of hollow orange halves.
He pushes a glass toward me filled with the juice. “No champagne in this, Delia. Maybe tonight if you come back for dinner.”
“I can’t,” I say and offer just a bit more, “I have plans.”
That plan is to meet up with a former professor of mine for a trip down memory lane. We usually do that in a bakery on the Upper West Side while sharing a plate of cookies.
Donovan’s expression doesn’t change at all before he turns toward a coffeemaker. He reaches for a white ceramic mug from a shelf above it. After filling it, he moves to the refrigerator to retrieve a small carton of cream. He adds a splash of it to the mug.
When he places it next to the glass of juice, I finally enter the kitchen to sit at the island to enjoy my morning beverages.
“Another night then?” He puts the cream back before he pours out another mug of coffee.
He adds a spoon of sugar to it and then samples it.
I glance at the fridge before my gaze finds his face again. “Do you not take cream in your coffee?”
“I don’t.”
I take a moment to digest that. “What do you cook with it?”
“Cook with what?” he asks, adjusting the collar of the black button-down shirt he’s wearing. He’s paired it with gray slacks and a black leather belt.
“The cream you put in my coffee.”
He bites the corner of his bottom lip. “I don’t cook much, and certainly not with cream. I don’t remember the last time I did that.”
All of the possible reasons for him to have cream in his fridge are disappearing at warp speed, leaving only one explanation.
He keeps it there so when a woman comes over he can fuck her brains out and in the morning he can add a splash of cream to her coffee if she wants that.
“You do take cream in your coffee, right?” He chuckles. “You took it that way on the cruise.”
“Yes.” I nod curtly. “Lots of women take it that way I suppose.”
Placing his mug down, he rounds the island until he’s seated next to me. “Look at me, Delia.”
I glance at him. “What?”
That’s not enough for him because he grabs my knees to turn me physically on the stool I’m sitting on. I have no choice but to look at him since I’m now facing him directly.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, his voice even and calm.
I look down at the skirt of my dress. “That I still have a lot of cat hair on my dress?”
He scoops my hands in his to bring them to his mouth. He kisses each of my knuckles softly. “You think I keep cream here so the parade of women who come through here in any given week are offered their choice of coffee accompaniments before I send them on their way.”
“None of that is my business,” I say, although I want nothing more than it to be my business because I’m seething with jealousy at the thought of any other woman witnessing the same scene I did last night when I got here.
“I want it to be your business,” he counters before he slides to his feet.
He reaches past me to grab something off the island. I recognize it as a receipt from a market I often go to. It’s one of the most popular in the city.
He holds it out to me, but when I don’t take it he drops it back down. “I bought cream last night on my way home just for you because I was hoping beyond hope that in the time it might take for it to sour, you’d show up here. I wanted to be ready for that.”
I swallow hard, stunned by his admission. “You did?”
“I did.” He sits back down, facing me again. “I’m not fucking anyone else at the moment, Delia. My life is way too busy to juggle multiple women. I like you. I really like sleeping with you, and that cream is yours and only yours.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to mask all of the emotions I’m feeling.
“I’m not going to ask about who else you’re fucking.” He exhales, dropping the receipt back down. “I want to, but I only opened the door to that discussion because I could see you were dying to ask the question.”
I smile. “It was that obvious?”
“You must be a shit poker player because you wear your emotions right here.” He circles a finger in front of my face. “I’m going to go grab a lint roller to save you from your doorman’s assumption that you spent the night cat sitting or sitting on the cock of someone who loves cats.”