Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I frown. “Why were they worried?”
She waves her free hand. “Nothing serious. I lived in a sketchy neighborhood in San Francisco, is all. I’ve been saving up to make a big purchase, so my living situation was dangerously cheap. It stressed my parents out. They kept thinking I was going to get mugged or murdered or contract some exotic disease from one of the used needles on the stairs.”
“Yikes.”
“Totally,” she says. “But worth it to make a big dream come true. What about you? Are you close with your parents?”
“My mom and I are close. She’s still in New Jersey, about a two-hour drive if traffic isn’t bad. I never knew my dad. He bolted as soon as he found out Mom was pregnant and never came back.”
Her brow furrows. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
I smile. “It’s okay. Really. From what I’ve heard, he was kind of a dick. And you can’t miss what you’ve never had, right?”
“Can’t you?” she asks. “I miss things I’ve never had all the time.”
“Like what?”
“Like…conversations like this one,” she says, a shy note in her voice that makes me want to kiss her again. “Most people don’t know how to talk to each other anymore. And you haven’t looked at your phone once since we sat down. That’s really hot.”
“Hot enough to let me take you out Sunday night?”
She bites her bottom lip, but the smile she’s holding back pops through, along with a little laugh that’s cute as hell. “Yeah. That sounds great. Sunday, it is.” She glances over my head with a sigh. “But if that clock’s right, I should probably say goodbye pretty soon. I turn into a pumpkin at eight.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
She takes another drink, shooting me a narrow glance out of the corners of her eyes. “I’ll tell you Sunday. Until then, I’m going to maintain my air of mystery. But I will share my favorite recipe challenge, if you think you can handle it.”
“Handle it? Please, woman,” I scoff. “You may have invented avocado toast at age four, but I’ve been making dinner every night since I was five. My mom is an amazing person, but she can’t boil water without catching the kitchen curtains on fire.”
She grins. “My mom, too. And mushroom Wellington is the challenge. It’s like beef wellington, but with extra mushroom moisture, guaranteed to ruin the surrounding pastry if you aren’t a true master of your craft. Only the best of the best can master the shroomy Wellington.”
“Oh, I’ll master it,” I say. “And I’ll bring a sample of my masterpiece to our date Sunday night. Prepare to have your socks knocked off.”
“You’re cocky.”
“Only when it comes to food.”
“Understandable,” she says, leaning in to add with an earnestness that makes it clear she’s not kidding, “But don’t bring a sample on Sunday, okay? Not unless it’s truly good. I’m kind of a jerk when it comes to food. I will share my honest opinion, even if it’s that your Wellington is soggy and uninspired and needs more dill.”
“I would expect nothing less,” I assure her. “And in my book, that’s not being a jerk. That’s giving constructive feedback, which is always appreciated. How else am I going to get good enough to leave my stressful job behind and own a restaurant of my own, someday?”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning as she says, “Ugh, you’re a chef, too. I should have known. Every man I want to pounce like a feral she-beast turns out to be a chef.”
“You want to pounce me like a feral she-beast?” I ask, grinning as I lean in to press a kiss to her lips before whispering, “That’s nearly as hot as throwing down the recipe gauntlet on the first date.”
“But not as hot as the way you kiss,” she says, brushing her lips softly back and forth across mine, making the already uncomfortable situation in my jeans even more…uncomfortable. “Let’s do more of this on Sunday.”
“Absolutely,” I promise, kissing her again and again, until the bartender clears his throat and asks if we want another drink—or a private room in the back.
But sadly, it’s time for Natalie to go.
I call her the car I promised and kiss her one last time before shutting her into the gray SUV and watching her be whisked away toward First Avenue. But I’m not too broken up about it—I have her number in my phone, and I get to see her again in just six days.
And if our second date goes as well as our first, my days of pounding the NYC dating pavement might soon be over.
The rational part of my brain knows it’s too early to be thinking girlfriend thoughts about a woman I barely know. She didn’t even give me her last name, for fuck’s sake, and she might not be looking for something serious. She might have dark, dangerous secrets or a jealous streak I won’t discover until she freaks out about how gorgeous my roommates are or loses her mind when I don’t text her back right away while I’m at work.