Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 135847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“I came home and made bread from scratch,” he told me. “The Bolognese is scratch too. I hope you like spice. I put some pepper in it. I’d normally also make the pasta, but I didn’t have time.”
I took up my wine but didn’t drink it. I walked around the island to the stove and lifted the lid off the cream enameled Le Creuset Dutch oven.
A gust of pure goodness drifted up to me. And it looked as good as it smelled.
I put the lid back on and turned to Hale. “Are you from this planet? I mean, for real. I signed an NDA. I can’t tell anyone if you’re from an alien species made of hot guys who are good with their hands, don’t freak out when a woman bursts into tears and know how to cook.”
He smiled and I had to mind my wine when he swung an arm around my waist and hauled me to his front.
“I’m not an alien,” he said, still smiling. “Are you of a secret society of females who always have the perfect outfit, are who they are and put that right out there all the time, and sound like an angel when they come, but suck cock like a witch?”
“Oh dear,” I fake-fretted. “The Themyscira sisterhood is going to be really mad at me. You weren’t supposed to figure it out. At least you didn’t find my bracelets and golden lasso.”
He busted out laughing, and I was so happy I made him do it, it was a little concerning.
He was wearing an olive-green sweater over a white tee and faded jeans.
I ran a finger along the collar of his sweater (cashmere, nice, he always had the perfect outfit too) and waited for him to stop laughing before I asked, “How did your day go?”
“It was just a day,” he answered, dipped in, touched his mouth to mine and let me go.
There.
Sharing.
But not forthcoming.
I decided it was time to dig a little deeper.
“What’d you do?”
He was opening a drawer in the island, inside of which it looked like a loaf of Focaccia was rising.
“Zoom meetings. More Zoom meetings. Went to lunch with you. Back to the office to close down there, came here, started the bread and then had more Zoom meetings.”
“Is that a normal day?”
“Considering the things I’m trying to do, I prefer the meetings to be face to face, because people find me intimidating due to me being Corey Szabo’s son. They can’t nod their heads and agree and then do whatever the fuck they want when I’m onsite for a while, and they know I’m coming back.”
I knew the things he was trying to do. I’d heard of angry executives leaving in a tiff because he increased their salaries, but axed their much larger bonuses. I’d heard about the hits he demanded they take to their bottom lines so all salaries were commiserate, no matter your gender or color, and benefit packages were significantly enhanced, including mandatory maternity and paternity leave, onsite childcare and education opportunities.
It just never occurred to me how much work would have to go into changing rooted corporate culture like that.
He shot me a grin, closed the proving drawer, and went to the oven. “Though, making the bread isn’t normal.”
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“Genny.”
“Imogen Swan makes bread from scratch?”
He shook his head but said, “She’s a really good cook. Mostly, she taught me how, and I got the bug. If I cook, it’s all from scratch. I don’t see the point of opening a can of clam chowder when I can make it and it’s a hundred times better.”
“It takes a lot more time, though.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Which means I don’t get to cook often. So thanks, babe, this has been awesome.”
“My pleasure, in more ways than one.”
He winked at me.
It was sweet.
But considering the fact I’d just learned he didn’t get to engage in something he enjoyed very often, I was oh-so not done with my getting-to-know-you time with Hale.
So I kept at it.
“Before you lost your dad, did you cook a lot?”
“Yup,” he answered, having turned on the oven and checked the sauce, he went to his wineglass, grabbed it and took a sip. Then he leaned against the island, facing me. “Taught the kids how to cook at the camp. And I wasn’t stingy with the process.”
Right.
Before he inherited his father’s empire, he used to run a camp for troubled kids. We’d spoken of this briefly during my interview with him, but he’d steered that to talking more about Trail Blazer, and not about his time at that camp.
“Do you miss the camp?”
“Every day,” he said cheerfully, his tone not matching his answer, which set more alarm bells ringing inside my head. “I’d rather be hiking or pitching a tent or building a fire or one on one with a kid who has a lot of shit to get out and I’m the first person he’s met who’s willing to take it from him.”