Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Despite forgetting two years, my current life seems the most stable I’ve had in a long time.
The most confusing, too.
On one hand, I’m extremely grateful and content with my balanced routine, but on the other, I feel dreadful about the fact that my tyrant husband has had something to do with it.
My steps are careful as I cast a glance to the opposite side of the hall, where Eli’s room is.
I hesitate at the top of the stairs and run a hand over my floral muslin dress that hugs my waist and stops right above my knees.
It’s pretty modest compared to the crop top and micro-mini skirt I contemplated wearing.
Might have something to do with my inability to muster the will to antagonize my husband. Not this morning.
It’s embarrassing enough that he witnessed my epic panic attack and even let me sleep against him on the way home. And I know he allowed it, because if there’s one thing I know about Eli King, it’s his lack of capacity to practice any form of sentimentality, so it’s strange that he made such an exception.
I’m well aware that I shouldn’t read too much into it and that he probably did it because he doesn’t appreciate being humiliated in public, but that doesn’t negate my feelings of gratitude.
My gaze drifts to the empty hallway, but I decide against the stupid idea of knocking on his door and head to the kitchen instead.
I’m not grateful enough to make him think I’m desperate.
“Morning, Sam.” I stroll inside with a grin.
The middle-aged woman looks up from towel-drying a pot, her gaze scanning me for a beat too long. “Did you sleep well?”
“Pretty well, thanks.” I stifle a yawn as I climb onto a bar stool and grab my pink-jeweled smoothie cup in one hand and a piece of avocado toast in the other. “Though I did have a bizarre dream.”
Sam glimpses at me over her shoulder. “How bizarre?”
I check our surroundings, then whisper, “Is he here?”
“Who’s he?”
“Who else? Your precious boss.”
“It’s past eleven in the morning, miss. He left for work hours ago.”
“Um, okay.” I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach and drown it with a long pull of smoothie and a bite of my toasted sourdough.
“What was the bizarre dream?” Sam appears in front of me with the posture of a Roman gladiator, which is comical at best when she’s still towel-drying another pot.
“It’s stupid, really. I dreamt of Eli taking me to bed. I think he dried my hair. Not sure why it was wet, though. And…um…he kissed my forehead and wished me good night.” I let out a soft laugh. “What are the odds, huh?”
“More likely than you think.”
“Yeah, right.” I drop the half-eaten toast on the plate and play with my straw. “I probably had that weird dream because of how he helped me last night.”
Sam’s movements slow down as she stares at me. “What else was in the dream?”
“That’s all I remember.” I squint. “And only in fragments. It’s strange because I don’t have dreams.” Only nightmares that make me wake up in a cold sweat and refuse to ever fall asleep again.
Sam says nothing. Like my cold husband, she’s a woman of a few words.
I swirl my nails on the sparkling jewels. “Were you the one who changed my clothes last night?”
“Who else would it have been?”
Right.
“By the way.” I opt for a different subject. “You didn’t congratulate me for yesterday.”
“Congratulations,” she says with a poker face.
“That sounds performative, as if you were dragged into saying it.”
“If you say so.”
I scowl but choose to let it go as I jump down from my stool. “Hey, Sam?”
“Yes?” She’s turned away to place the pots in the cupboards.
“What are you making for lunch?”
“Basil soup, shepherd’s pie, and broccoli salad.”
“And dessert?”
“Salted caramel flan.”
“Make it strawberry and I’ll help.”
“Why would you?”
“Well…I’m bored.”
“Considering you’re able to watch films and read books for hours on end, I find that hard to believe.”
“Fiiine. I want to learn how to cook.”
“Why?”
“Just stop asking questions and teach me.”
“So you can burn dishes faster than you murder the poor flowers?”
“Oh, please. I’m trying to make something fun from those flowers.”
“Afraid Mr. Pratt does not agree with that view.”
“He’s just being dramatic. He’ll survive.” I interlink my arm with hers. “So will you? Please?”
“As long as you promise not to poison Mr. King.”
My lips part.
“You will poison him?”
“Nooo, what are you talking about?” I laugh. “You’re so funny.”
“I’m anything but funny.”
“True.” I sigh with a mock pout.
She flips a sliding drawer open, places the pot inside amongst an incredibly organized set of similar pots, then pushes it closed.
OCD runs in this household, I swear. They should be thankful I’m adding more liveliness to their existence for free.
“So? So?” I place my hands together in a prayer. “Pretty please?”
“Fine. But only if you promise not to mess with his food. He’s iffy about it as it is and would possibly fast for eternity if something were to happen.”