Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I turn the heat on the skillet, letting some oil come to temperature while I season two chicken breasts and then dredge them in a flour mixture. Once the oil’s ready, I lay the chicken in and then wash my hands again.
“What’re we having?” Dani asks, eyeing the ingredients.
I turn around, leaning back on the counter and staying across the room when I say this. “Don’t start getting ideas in that head of yours and jumping to the worst conclusion at the slightest provocation the way you like to do. I just wanted to make something I’m comfortable with so I didn’t fuck it up.” She cocks her head, expecting the worst. I lick my lips, diving into dangerous waters with concrete weighing down both feet. “It’s called Marry Me Chicken.”
She laughs, and I don’t think either of us expected that reaction, given the look of surprise in her eyes.
“It’s pan fried chicken, pasta, and cream sauce, with sun-dried tomatoes and spinach. That okay?” I ask.
Dani shakes her head, saying no, but what comes out of her mouth is, “That sounds amazing.”
Relieved, my shoulders drop an inch because she’s still sitting at the counter and not running for the door at the too-terrifying recipe name. “Good, but don’t expect a proposal over dinner. No falling in love with me.” It’s a joke, and I laugh, but as I return to the stove to flip the chicken, there’s a knot in my chest that wasn’t there a second ago.
“Pretty sure you’re the one who needs that warning,” she reminds me.
“Touché.”
Dani watches as I cook, and thankfully, I don’t screw up the recipe I make at least twice a month, usually packaging up the leftovers for the next night’s dinner. It’s comfortable and easy as we talk about this and that, getting to know each other.
“Do you do this a lot?” she asks as I’m plating our food.
“What?”
“Date. Cook girls dinner.”
I pause, pinning her with a look. “You’re the first woman other than my family who’s been here since the real estate agent who sold it to me dropped off the spare keys. I don’t date much, and when I do, it’s usually something like Applebee’s two-for-twenty before we go back to her place so I can leave after.” I see the hard edge come back to Dani’s gaze. “Because that’s how they want it. I’m not exactly the ‘take home to Mom and Dad’ sort, am I? I’ve made my peace with that because I’m not taking girls home to my parents, either.”
Dani’s eyes melt by approximately two degrees when I mention that no one would take me—a dirty, blue collar, fancy hole digger—home to their folks because we both know that’s true for her. Especially after she already said her parents want to marry her off to the closest rich guy, like her brother who wears fancy watches and drives a BMW. I could be that guy, but I have less than zero interest in that kind of life, so if that’s what Dani’s looking for, I’m not it.
“Why not? I’ve told you about my parents, and you said your dad’s not proud of you, which sucks. But would they really not be happy if you found someone?”
Too close. She’s too fucking close to shit I don’t want to talk about, shit I don’t even like to think about. And I definitely don’t want to talk about them tonight. Hell, I don’t want to talk about them ever.
“Are we trauma bonding now?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound light and teasing because I know it’ll piss her off.
She’s got walls? Well, so the fuck do I. And what would make my parents happy is stored behind one of those walls that’s been fortified with concrete, rebar, and electrified to keep people out. Even myself because I don’t want to examine too closely why I don’t make them happy.
Her mouth clacks shut, but what hurts more is the shutters I see closing in her eyes. I’m pushing her away from too-sensitive things in my past and present, but it’s pushing her away all the same, and if there’s one thing Dani knows, it’s defensiveness.
“Let’s eat.” I walk past her to the round, glass dining table and set the plates down. “Wine? Beer? Soda?”
“What kind of beer?”
“Coors, white wine, or Sprite.”
“Wine, please. Is Coors even real beer?” she teases, and I can sense that she’s trying to get us back to a better place too.
I pour her a glass of wine, grab a bottle of beer for myself, and then sit down beside her. “Real enough for me.”
I hold my bottle up for a toast, and she clinks her glass against it, saying, “To not dating, not falling in love, not getting married, and not meeting the parents.”
I laugh at her summary of our pitiful agreement. “And to flirting, having fun, and if she can stop giving me shit long enough, to maybe getting to kiss a sexy woman tonight.”