Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I throw up the hood, stuff my hands in my pockets, and stomp over to the shed. I need to make sure the firewood is stacked on the tarp and out of the snow. I don’t want it getting wet. The task would normally only take me ten or fifteen minutes, but I stretch it out, lingering until I have no excuse but to go back inside. Besides, my hands are nearly frozen.
The kitchen smells amazing, rich and savory. I kick the snow off my boots and drop my hood. Summer looks over at me, smiling that effervescent smile. Her toes wiggle in her socks. Her jeans fit her ass perfectly.
I haven’t slept with Alice in a year, which means I haven’t slept with anyone in a year. That’s too long. Clearly. I’m looking at Summer like she’s ready to be devoured. It doesn’t help that she has a body fit for Aphrodite, those long legs and curves. She reaches down into a lower cabinet for something and I see down the top of her t-shirt. It’s like I’m staring at something forbidden. Every part of me takes notice.
This isn’t going to work.
I need her gone. Now.
I open my mouth to tell her to pack her bags right when she steps away from the stove to grab a serving spoon. “I made pasta with spicy sausage and spaghetti squash. Hope you’re hungry.”
Fuck me. I am.
“I opened a bottle of red. Your glass is on the table,” she tells me.
Sure enough, the bottle sits between two place settings. She’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look nice.
“Thanks,” I mumble before going over to wash my hands so I can take a seat.
I know this dinner is going to be awkward, and it is. With how confined the kitchen is, it feels like we’re right on top of each other when she comes around to serve me. Her hip brushes my arm when she asks if I want any parmesan cheese.
I clear my throat. “Yes, please.”
Maybe we need some ground rules. Like she’s not allowed to come downstairs from the hours of 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.
She takes her seat and picks up her wine, groaning as she takes the first sip. More of her hair has slipped out of her knot. She looks completely undone. Ravaged.
I get busy eating my dinner. The faster I finish, the faster I can escape upstairs.
I down my wine, and she refills my glass with a small smile. I nod in thanks and drop my napkin in my lap then watch as she leans forward to take a bite.
It won’t help me to ignore the fact that Summer is insanely gorgeous. Admitting that to myself, in my head, might make this slightly easier. I’ve tried to ignore it all day and that hasn’t worked, so I’ll call a spade a spade and go from there. Maybe trying to force down my reaction to her is part of the problem.
“Do you like it?” she asks, referring to the pasta I’ve scarfed down in record time.
“It’s great.”
It’s flavorful, and I like that it packs a punch with the sausage.
“It’s my mom’s recipe. Like I said, she’s an avid cook.”
“Does she work?”
She nods and wipes her mouth with her napkin before replying. “She and my dad are both physicians. My sister and brother too.”
“And you are—”
“Not,” she interrupts with a flat smile as she rolls her eyes. “I’m the zany wild child.”
“You don’t seem wild.”
She cocks an eyebrow in protest. “No?”
Fire burns through me, and I reach for my wine glass again.
“My parents would disagree with you. I think they’ve fully accepted that I’m a lost cause.”
“I don’t understand. Because you didn’t go into medicine?” I sound incredulous.
She shrugs one delicate shoulder. “Among other things.”
“Did you get in a lot of trouble growing up or something?”
I can’t picture it. She seems like the studious type, a teacher’s pet if there ever was one.
She laughs at the suggestion. “No. Not at all. I’ve never had detention or anything. I’m one of those people who hates getting in trouble. What about you? Were you wild?”
“I was a latchkey kid. My parents gave me a lot of rope, and I never really tried to abuse their trust.”
She studies me as I talk, her head tilting to the side ever so gently. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four. Shouldn’t you have already known that? Didn’t InkWell give you a file with every bit of information they have on me?”
Her eyes alight with the suggestion. “No, but I wish they had. All your deep, dark secrets?” Her eyebrows waggle. “I’d love to read them.”
“There’s nothing deep or dark about me.”
She snorts in disbelief. “You should get an outsider’s perspective.”
“So tell me.”
She forces a swallow as her expression sobers. “What I think about you?” Her voice is shaky now; she seems worried where the conversation is going.