Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 104745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“And.” He goes on. “We’re identical now but when we were in middle school, he was a few inches taller—which drove me nuts.”
“I bet!”
“Yeah.” It sounds like he’s scratching his chin. “All the dudes in my family are big, you know? Tall and shit. And here I was shorter than my damn twin.”
“Blow to the ego?”
“That’s an understatement.”
We’re both silent for a few seconds.
“So what about you? I know you weren’t interested in a relationship—not that this is a relationship,” I backpedal, cringing to myself. “Back at you, I mean. What are you looking for?”
“Haven’t given it much thought.” He pauses and scratches his chin again, his hand muffling the mouthpiece on his phone. “Not looking for a user. Someone sincere—like my brothers’ girlfriends. Neither of them gives a shit about fame or money or being in the public eye.”
“The public eye?”
“Yeah, Duke is in the press a lot. He’s a big deal.” He actually does sound humble this time, if not a bit embarrassed? But that can’t be right.
Drake is proud of his brothers, this I know for a fact. Who wouldn’t be?
I had not known his brother was in the press, let alone a lot. I don’t watch football, don’t know who the players are, and don’t know if they stay on the field or do celebrity things like galas and movie premiers.
Basically I wouldn’t know a pro football player if I was sitting on his face.
“I didn’t know that. Is it bad if I admit I have no idea who your brothers are?”
“No, that’s a good thing. It means you didn’t go on a bender googlin’ shit, and you didn’t get all starry-eyed from what you found. I can smell a fame chaser a mile away.”
“Is that one of your special talents?” I laugh, bending at the waist to glance at my pizza in the oven.
The cheese is melting, and the top is beginning to brown.
“I suppose it is.”
“I’m sorry that’s part of your reality.” I sniff the air, stomach growling. “I can’t imagine living like that.”
“Why are you apologizin’? You haven’t done nothin’.”
“I know, I’m just saying. It felt strange being in the café having hot chocolate and watching people watch you.”
“They weren’t just watchin' me. They were watchin' both of us.”
Worse.
That’s way worse.
Something I’d have to get used to, I guess.
“It’s natural for people to be curious.” He allows. “It’s another thing when they invade your privacy and shit like that.”
“Does that happen? Do people invade your privacy?”
He snorts. “Hell yeah. All the damn time.”
“How?”
“Give it enough time and people will be takin’ your picture while you’re tryin’ to eat. Or take a piss at a urinal.”
“You’ve had dudes try to take your picture while you’re peeing?”
“Yeah, selfies. Like, ‘Bro, can we take a picture?’ with my dick still in my hand.”
“Are you joking?”
“Would I make that up?” He laughs. “Improv isn’t one of my talents.”
I laugh, too. “Besides not wanting to date a gold-digger, what are you looking for?”
“I’m not thinking about kids right now or nothing like that, but someone who likes to cook and shit would be nice. I bake, but I don’t cook.”
Hold up.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, glancing around. “You bake?”
That is not what I was expecting him to say.
“Yeah. I’m not great at it, but I like brownies and cake.”
He likes baking brownies and cake?
“What ’bout you?”
“I…guess I like cookies? Chocolate chip cookies.” I haven’t had them in forever. “The gooey kind that have just been taken out of the oven are the best kind. Once they get cold, I’m not interested.”
“I stopped makin’ cookies when I fucked up the last few batches I made. I hate wastin’ ingredients.” He pauses. “I think the stove is a piece of shit. It ruins everything.”
Wastin’ ingredients.
I’m not thinking about kids right now or nothing like that…
This conversation is killing me.
“So you’d like someone who cooks, because you like to bake.” Got it. Noted.
“Do you want kids?” Drake suddenly asks, and it sounds like he’s chewing on something—I wonder what it is, given that my pizza is almost done.
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly because I have no idea what I’m doing next week, let alone for the rest of my life. “I don’t know. I don’t think about it all that often.”
I open the door to the oven, oven mitt on my head, ready to reach in and pull out the pizza.
“Yeah me too,” he drawls. “I have no idea what I’m doing next week let alone for the rest of my life.”
I straighten. “Did you just say exactly what I was thinking?”
“I have no idea what you were thinkin’.”
“I was thinking exactly what you just said.”
“Well, don’t that beat all.” He’s chuckling again, and I get the feeling he’s humoring me. “What are you up to?”
Tucking my phone beneath my chin, I slide the pizza out of the oven, cringing as the pizza sheet grates along the metal oven rack. Like nails on a chalkboard.