Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
No. I won’t do that to them. Getting my breathing under control, I put Kelly Clarkson back on. My parents have a happy, normal life, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. If that means I have to deal with Peter on my own, so be it.
Hopefully, I’m strong enough to survive whatever he’ll dish out.
Chapter 20
Sara
What he dishes out is food. Lots of deliciously smelling food.
Stunned, I gape at the spread on my dining room table. There is a whole roasted chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a big leafy salad—all of it prettily arranged between lit candles and a bottle of white wine.
I figured I might get ambushed in my house tonight, but I didn’t expect this.
“Hungry?” a deep, lightly accented voice asks from behind me, and I whirl around, my pulse leaping as Peter Sokolov steps out from the hallway. The front of his hair is wet, as if he just washed his face, and though he’s dressed in a blue button-up shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he’s not wearing shoes, only socks.
He looks gorgeous—and more dangerous than ever.
“What—” My voice is too high, so I take a breath and try again. “What is this?”
“Dinner,” he says, looking amused. “What does it look like?”
“I…” The air in the room thins as he stops a couple of feet from me, the intimate look in his eyes reminding me that I slept naked in his arms. “I’m not hungry.”
“No?” He arches his dark eyebrows. “All right, then. Let’s go to bed.” He moves as if to reach for me, and I jump back.
“No, wait! I could eat.”
A smile curves his lips. “I thought so. After you.”
He gestures in a courtly semi-circle, and I walk over to the table, trying to swallow my heart back into my chest as he turns off the overhead light, leaving only candlelight as illumination, and follows me to the table.
He pulls out a chair, and I sit in it. Then he walks over to the chair across from me and takes a seat himself. I notice that the table is set with two plates and my formal silverware—the one George liked me to use only for holidays and parties.
Silently, I watch George’s killer expertly cut up the chicken and put one of the drumsticks—my favorite part of the chicken—on my plate, along with several spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and a generous portion of the salad.
“Where did you get all this food?” I ask as he loads his own plate.
“I made it.” He looks up from his plate. “You like chicken, right?”
I do, but I’m not about to tell him that. “You cook?”
“I dabble.” He picks up his knife and fork. “Go ahead, try it.”
I push my chair back and get up. “I have to wash my hands.” I just came in from the garage, and the OCD doctor in me won’t let me touch food without first washing off the hospital germs.
“All right,” he says, putting down his utensils, and I realize he intends to wait for me.
My stalker has excellent table manners.
I go into the nearby bathroom and wash my hands, scrubbing between each finger and around my wrists like I always do. By the time I return to the table, he’s already poured us each a glass of wine, and the crisp smell of Pinot Grigio mixes with the delicious aromas of the meal, adding to the bizarreness of the situation.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’re on a date.
“How did you know I’d come here instead of going to a hotel?” I ask when I’m seated.
He shrugs. “It was an educated guess. You’re bright, so you’re unlikely to make the same mistake twice.”
“Uh-huh.” I pick up my fork and try a bite of mashed potatoes. The rich, buttery flavor is bliss on my tongue, jumpstarting my appetite despite the anxiety roiling my stomach. “That’s a lot of cooking to do on an educated guess.”
“Yes, well, no risk, no reward, right? Besides, I’ve seen how you think and reason, Sara. You don’t do stupid, pointless things, and going to another hotel would’ve been precisely that.”
My hand tightens around my fork. “Is that right? You think you know me because you’ve stalked me for a few weeks?”
“No.” His eyes gleam in the candlelight. “I don’t know you, ptichka—at least not nearly as well as I’d like to.”
Ignoring that provocative statement, I focus on my plate. Now that I’ve had a bite, my mouth is watering for more. Despite what I told Peter earlier, I’m starving, and I gladly dig into the delicious spread on my plate. The chicken is perfectly seasoned, the mashed potatoes are generously buttered, and the green salad is refreshingly tangy with an unusual lemony dressing. I’m so absorbed in eating that I’m halfway done with my plate when a frightening thought occurs to me.