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)
She looks up, notices the grocery bags in my hands, and then a playful smile stretches across her lips. “Please tell me you got more chocolate.”
I walk in and drop the bags on the kitchen table. “You’re a fiend. Martin said I had to cut you off.”
Her jaw drops. “He did not! It was you who ate through that whole bar yesterday when we were plotting! I only had two bites!”
“Come help me unload this stuff.”
“Please.”
“Please, get over here.”
She rolls her eyes and lays her book face down on the edge of the couch so she won’t lose her place. With gentle care, she lifts Cat and sets him back down in her warm spot, wrapping the blanket over him like he’s a newborn baby.
“You know he’s feral,” I say drolly.
As she saunters toward the kitchen, her gaze catches mine, and it’s filled with mischief when she replies, “Yes, just like someone else I know.”
If it were different, if she were already mine, I’d back her up against the kitchen wall and press my mouth to hers. I’d slip my hand up under her sweater and steal all her warmth. I’d tell her I missed her all morning, as ridiculous and silly as it sounds. I wasn’t away from her for long, but her scent was missing, her laughter and sunshine.
I blink the thought away and hand her a bag to unload.
“Good god, did you leave any cheese for anyone else?”
I saw her eating this same brand yesterday, and she made some offhand comment about how much she liked it. I guess I wasn’t paying attention when I swept more into my basket.
“We’re having a dinner party,” I say, glad for the excuse once I see all the other crap I purchased. Now, it seems like I didn’t buy it all for her.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“You’re hosting a dinner party?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m a great host.”
She barks out a laugh before she slaps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. Yes. You are. You’ve hosted me the last week and a half and we’ve only argued most of every day. An accomplishment, I’m sure. Who’s coming?”
I go back to unloading grocery bags. “Everyone who was at dinner last Friday. Freya, Mike, Alice…”
When she doesn’t reply, I look over to see her face is lit up. “I wasn’t sure I’d see them again,” she admits.
“Well you are. Tonight.”
“Good thing I cleaned up. What are we serving?”
“Alice is bringing lasagna and Freya’s bringing dessert.”
She whips open the fridge and bends down to survey what we have. “Okay. Looks like I can pull together a salad and some appetizers.” She’s already yanking stuff out. Never mind that we still need to put groceries away. “My mom makes this amazing simple vinaigrette dressing.” She chews on her bottom lip. “I wish I knew the exact recipe. I know there’s honey and Dijon mustard, olive oil, and is it vinegar—or no, apple cider vinegar? What’s the difference?”
She pauses with her arms filled with crap and looks at me like I’d possibly know which vinegar her mom uses in her dressing recipe. I can’t remember the last time I ate a salad, much less constructed one.
Seeing the look on my face, she rolls her eyes. “Oh never mind, I’ll figure it out.”
While Summer’s busy slicing cheese and fruit, I bring down a few spare chairs from upstairs so everyone will have a place to sit. My kitchen table can be expanded with a leaf, though the ancient thing isn’t happy about it.
Summer watches on with a secret smile. She enjoys me having to struggle like this.
She has her own problems to worry about though. “How’s the salad coming?” I ask.
She’s over near the sink with a mad scientist’s setup, every condiment, oil, vinegar, and spice I own set out in front of her.
“Oh don’t you worry your pretty little head about the salad. It’ll be fantastic.” Then she samples a bit of the dressing she just finished making, pulls a face like she’s never tasted anything more disgusting in her entire life, and dumps the contents into the trash bin to start over.
It’s been a long time since I’ve hosted anyone in the cottage. A year, maybe more. It hasn’t been intentional. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to become a reclusive asshole.
When I originally moved to England, it was to get away from the pressure and the people, yes. I had hoped the change of scenery would shake something loose inside me, free me of the constraints I felt back in New York. I wasn’t completely wrong about the move here. I was hopeful for a while. When I originally met Alice and Mike and everyone, I was more outgoing than I am now, friendly even. Jesus, it’s hard to imagine.
Then months passed.