Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“No mushrooms,” Rian said immediately, and wrinkled his nose up in distaste. “They’re gross.”
Damon fought back his smile.
No.
Not even thinking it.
Not even thinking that Rian was cute, right now.
Definitely something wrong with me.
“Okay,” he said, and leaned over to pull the freezer open, feeling in until he found the rump cut of beef he’d put away until he felt like doing something with it, before tugging it out and slamming the door shut. “No mushrooms. But there’s carrots, broccoli, bell peppers...think I got some snow peas in there.”
“Oh,” Rian answered faintly. “Do I cut the snow peas...? Or just wash them?”
Damon stopped, one hand on the hot water lever on the sink, and just looked at Rian. “You can’t cook, can you?”
“I...” Rian cleared his throat, and toyed at one of his dangling pendants, eyes darting left and right before fixing on Damon sheepishly. “I can microwave things...?”
“...how old are you?”
“Thirty-two,” Rian shot back defensively. “You?”
“Thirty-eight.” Damon arched a brow. “Cooking isn’t a life skill you pick up at thirty-seven, by the way.”
“I know.” Rian’s lower lip jutted out. He turned his face away, chin practically resting on his narrow, upthrust shoulder as he folded his arms over his chest and glared across the apartment. “I know. Okay? I know. I just...”
Whatever he said next was just an unintelligible mumble, mangled through his teeth. Damon finally remembered to turn the hot water on, and dropped the cling-wrapped package of frozen beef into the sink to run under the water and defrost.
“What was that?” he asked.
“... I had a chef,” Rian threw out defiantly, pout deepening.
“A chef.”
“Yes. And a nutritionist, and...”
Damon held one hand up. “I don’t need to hear any more. I get the idea.”
Yeah, they were definitely from different worlds.
Damon hadn’t wanted for anything growing up, had been safe and comfortable and settled with his family, but...he hadn’t been private chef comfortable.
Shaking his head, he pulled a drawer open and retrieved two out of his stack of slender plastic cutting boards, setting a bright green one down on the other side of the sink and tugging a knife from the wooden block next to the coffee pot. Setting the knife down atop the board in an unspoken invitation, he said, “That kind of rich, huh?”
After a few hesitant moments, Rian straggled closer, unfolding the defensive lock of his arms and pulling the fridge open. The pale light inside fell over his face, highlighting the thin bridge of his nose, as he bent to peer inside.
“My parents are,” he said, oddly muted.
Damon set his own cutting board down on his side of the sink, but left it for now, waiting for the beef to soften under the hot water a little more. Instead he leaned his hip against the counter, watching Rian curiously. “Seems like an important distinction to you.”
Rian moved with the tentative touch of someone uncertain in someone else’s space, reaching into the fridge and then drawing back, before starting again, carefully picking up a bundle of carrots and another of broccoli. He straightened and set them on the cutting board, then went back again with a bit more confidence, tucking his trailing hair behind his ear before going after the carton of fresh snow peas and a little rustling plastic bag full of red and yellow and green bell peppers.
Damon thought Rian might just ignore what he’d said, when he seemed completely puzzled by the bag of bell peppers, staring down at them. “Do we really need all of these?”
“Nah,” Damon said. “For just the two of us, one red and one yellow will do. We’ll have the snow peas and broccoli for a little green.”
“I wasn’t aware the color aesthetics and balance of stir-fry were so important,” Rian said wryly, and started plucking the knot on the plastic bag open with slim fingertips. With his head lowered, his eyes on his hands, and his voice muffled... Damon almost didn’t catch when he murmured, “... I didn’t earn any of it.”
Ah.
Yeah.
Damon could understand that.
But Rian seemed to almost be flinching away from Damon’s scrutiny—so Damon managed to mind his manners and look away, shutting off the hot water in the sink and fishing out the beef, pressing at it with his thumbs. Defrosted enough on the surface, he thought, and if he cut the strips thin enough the wok should be enough to cook them through and through without leaving any frozen raw spots in the center.
The only sound between them was the crinkle of plastic as Damon started unwrapping the beef, and the quiet shushing of the faucet turning on again as Rian flicked on the cold water and started washing one of the yellow peppers. Damon watched him surreptitiously from the corner of his eye; Rian handled the vegetable like he was handling some kind of exobotanical organism, holding it gingerly and looking so intently focused on making sure he rinsed every last crevice and bulge in its surface.