Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
“Silverware in there.” I point to a drawer next to the stove. “Dishes up there. I have a frying pan and a saucepan for cookware down there.” I point to a lower cabinet next to the stove.
“Perfect.”
Chuckling to myself, I hurry into the bedroom and grab the first clean shirt I find. I peer in the mirror next to my closet and run my fingers through my hair, taming a few spiky pieces.
Molly’s in my kitchen, making dinner for us. Why am I fucking with my hair?
I thought for sure I’d screwed things up with us before. But she’s here. I hate that it seems to be some sort of apology dinner she’s putting together, though. She’s not the one who needs to apologize. I am.
The scent of sizzling onions greets my nose in the hallway. Molly’s humming to herself and flitting around my tiny kitchen like she owns it. I lean on the doorframe and watch her for a few seconds. She stripped off the sweatshirt and draped it over the back of a chair, leaving her in a tight pink tank top and black leggings.
How am I supposed to leave her for two months?
Because hopefully when I get back, I’ll have enough money to take care of us for years. Short-term pain for long-term gain.
“Smells good,” I say.
She turns and smiles.
“Need help?”
“Sure.” She waves her hand over the short assembly line of fixings in a neat row on my counter. “We’re going to spread that mixture in the tortillas, stuff them with cheese, chicken, and the veggie mix, then roll ’em up and nestle them in the baking dish.”
“Sounds easy enough.” I move closer. “Which end do you want me at?”
She studies the ingredients, as if she’s really concerned about what point in the process my skills will be most valuable.
“Hmm…how about I’ll do the spreading and you do the stuffing.”
“Happy to stuff your tacos anytime, Muffin.” I flash a dirty smile at her.
She attempts a stern side-eye, but the corners of her mouth twitch. “En-chil-a-das.” She pronounces each syllable slowly.
“Even better.” I pick up the spoon and run my gaze over her body. “Where are we smearing this again?”
“Not on me,” she scoffs. “It has hot sauce in it.”
“Okay, yeah. Let’s definitely keep that away from our sensitive parts.”
“All right, funny guy.” She nods at the spoon in my hand. “You spread, I’ll stuff.”
“Works for me.” I dip the spoon in the orange mixture and smear it over a softened corn tortilla, then pass it to Molly.
While I’d probably sloppily toss everything together, throw it in the oven, and hope for the best, Molly artfully arranges each layer, then neatly rolls each enchilada and carefully places them seam-side down in the baking dish.
“Kinda feeling like a slacker here.” I wave the spoon at her after handing over the final tortilla.
“Yours is the tastiest step of the process, so it’s important.” She pours buffalo sauce over the enchiladas, sprinkles more shredded cheese, and drizzles blue cheese dressing over the whole thing.
“It looks good just like that,” I say.
She wiggles her fingers over the top of the dish like she’s the prettiest witch, casting a delicious spell. “But we want the cheese to get all melty, gooey, and bubbly.”
“That does sound better.” The dish has to be heavy, so I grab it before she does. She lowers the oven door and heat blasts over us. “Huh. Who knew the oven actually works?” I slide the pan onto the middle rack.
“I’m as shocked as you are.” She pats the top of the stove like it’s a dog she’s rewarding for sitting on command.
“How long?”
She taps her watch. “I’m setting my timer for fifteen minutes.”
Good. That gives us time to clear up a few things. “Let’s talk.” I wrap my hand around hers and tug her over to the table.
She chooses the chair wedged into a spot between the stacked washer/dryer combo in the corner and a window that looks out onto the parking lot. I grab the empty laundry basket in the middle of the table, set it on the floor, then sit across from her.
She’s so solemn as she rests her elbows on the table and clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry I cut you off earlier.”
I hold up one hand to stop her apology. “I’m sorry.” I reach across the table and rest my hand over hers. “You are so important to me, Molly. Please, don’t doubt that.” I blow out a long breath, trying to arrange my words in the right order. “I didn’t mean to make the decision without talking to you about it. I…I’m not used to asking permission—”
“You don’t need my permission.” She squeezes my hand and rubs her thumb over my knuckles. “But I wish you’d told me sooner.”
So do I. She’s the first person I should’ve told. But thank fuck she’s willing to listen now. “There’s a cash prize if I make it to the final four. That’s the main reason I said yes. The only reason, really.”