Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
I wince as I hear my own words. Now Max isn’t just a specter but a real obstacle. I see the impact on Danielle’s face, the way her lips twist into a frown, her forehead furrowing like she can’t take the pain of what we’re doing.
But then I see her visibly push it away. She forks some vegetables, looking across the table at me, so gorgeous and bright and alluring in her sparkly top I almost flip the table and leap on her.
“You know Mom died when I was seven?”
“I remember,” I say, nodding.
“They didn’t have enough money for her medical bills. Dad tried to organize a fundraiser but didn’t know how to get the word out there. I was too young to help or even understand. But as I got older, I couldn’t let it go. We could’ve tried so many things if only we’d known.”
“I wish my TV show had started sooner,” I tell her. “I wish I could’ve helped.”
“Thank you.”
Her voice goes soft, tinged with sadness.
I reach over the small table and touch her hand. She wraps her fingers around me, clinging on tightly.
“That was how it started,” she says. “As a teenager, I became obsessed with that, thinking of how we could have fought harder, tried more. That’s what made me buy my first marketing book. And from there, it all just sort of came together.”
“You should be proud,” I tell her seriously. “Going straight into an internship, working your ass off, seizing the opportunity to work with me.”
“Some people would call that a handout,” she mutters.
I give her hand a squeeze, shaking my head. “I gave you an initial chance. If you’d sent me a bunch of silly ideas that could never work, I wouldn’t have agreed to work with you. No, Danielle, you’ve got real talent. I know you’re going to own this field one day.”
She meets my eye, the corners of her lips moving upward, her smile unsure but with a glimmer of confidence behind it.
It’s like she’s waiting for the chance to fully emerge into who she is, who she’s going to become.
With my help.
I’ll be there every step of the way.
I eat quietly for a minute or so, swallowing not only food but also the desire to tell her the total truth.
At least the table is between us, blocking physical contact…for now.
“This is delicious,” she says after swallowing a mouthful. “Honestly. I never knew chicken and vegetables could taste so good.”
There’s a special pleasure from knowing somebody has enjoyed something I cooked, but it’s even sweeter when that person is my woman. It’s even sweeter when I know I’m bringing the future mother of my children some happiness, some joy, even if it’s the barest shadow of what I’d like – what I need – to be doing.
“I don’t need to ask your story, do I?” she says, a light teasing note in her voice.
I chuckle. “If you’ve watched my show, you know my story.”
After a pause, I add, “Well, you think you do.”
She looks up, narrowing her eyes, that cute smile on her lips again. It’s the way they twitch into shape, as though she’s still unsure, always doubting if this is real.
It’s a captivating conflict, difficult to look away from.
“What do you mean?”
I shrug, playing it casual, but I can’t stop smirking. “Tell me my story, Danielle.”
“Okay…” She forks some chicken, chews, and swallows as she remembers. “After that tragic accident… well, not accident. You know, with your parents…and I’m so sorry about that, Damien.”
I wave a hand as though it doesn’t matter, but it’s difficult to pretend with Danielle. My hand drops, and I nod, taking her words seriously.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I was a kid. It was a long time ago.”
“But it’s still tough,” she says, and I know she’s thinking about her biological mom.
“Yeah, it is.”
“So after that,” I prompt, smirking again despite the darkness of the conversation. “What happened?”
“You need me to tell you your own story?”
I shrug again, and she goes on.
“You won a junior cooking competition, and you were head-hunted by a top chef, but, as you grew older, you realized the man was stealing from you. You left him, his restaurant, risking everything to strike out on your own. And you made it. It worked.”
“That’s the story they tell,” I say, nodding. “The TV people. The one they invented because I wouldn’t give them the real one.”
She sits forward, looking closely at me. I feel so seen when she looks at me like that. Which is something I didn’t even think I cared about, a vague feeling of the real me – whatever that means – being seen, acknowledged.
But I’ve never felt this intensely about anybody before.
“Do you want to tell me the real one?” she whispers, tone flooded with fascination.
“Do you want to hear it?” I counter.