Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 234779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1174(@200wpm)___ 939(@250wpm)___ 783(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 234779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1174(@200wpm)___ 939(@250wpm)___ 783(@300wpm)
I shoot him an unamused look. “I know I’m not like Daisy, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I was. That’s all.”
“No. You’re a lot of things, Riley Bishop, but shallow is not one of them,” he mutters, making it sound much less like a compliment than it really is.
“You’re grumpy,” I point out, as if he doesn’t already know. Dialing up the sweetness several notches, I all but bat my eyelashes at him. “Want me to give you a shoulder rub while you get started? Work out some of that tension?”
He’s still annoyed, but not so annoyed he’ll turn down physical affection. “You just want to watch what I’m writing over my shoulder.”
I grin, dropping my pen and pushing back my chair. “You caught me,” I say as I move to stand behind his chair and position my hands on his exceedingly sexy shoulders.
Hunter opens a fresh document, then turns his head and looks up at me. “If you want to work out my tension, I have a few more ideas if this one doesn’t work.”
“We’ll make a list,” I promise as I start to knead his shoulders. “After we’re finished with our homework, we can try out every last one of them.”
Chapter Fifty
Riley
After Hunter finishes penning his murderous masterpiece and we both finish all of our homework, we get to work on dinner.
Now aware that I have no wine expertise, he takes me down to show me the wine cellar, but doesn’t consult me as he picks out wine to go with dinner.
Hunter is making a pasta dish. He says it’s simple to make since he’s using boxed pasta, but I want to help, so he throws some olive oil and seasoning into a bowl, then tells me to toss the grape tomatoes in and turn them over until they’re all thoroughly coated.
“Would your Italian housekeeper approve of you using boxed pasta?” I inquire, glancing back at him over my shoulder as I coat the tomatoes in olive oil.
Hunter smirks. “Probably not, especially with all this time we have on our hands. Boxed pasta is okay with her if you’re short on time and essentially desperate, but yeah, it’s always better if you make it homemade. Tomorrow night I’ll make you her famous chicken Alfredo. We’ll make fresh fettuccine for that.”
I gasp. “You’re going to show me how to make pasta?”
He turns around and slides his arms around my waist, nuzzling his face in the crook of my neck. “Mm-hmm. It’s only fair since you helped me kill Sherlock.”
I shake my head, tossing the tomatoes again. “I didn’t approve of that, mister. Don’t mistake my help for encouragement. You shouldn’t kill your friends.” I miss a beat, but not long enough for him to latch onto this subject. “It’s nice that we can learn from each other, though. I like that.”
He kisses my neck. “So do I.” He releases me and takes the bowl and spoon from my hands. “Those look adequately tossed. I’ll take it from here.”
“That’s all I get to do?” I ask, turning around and watching him dump the tomatoes and the seasoned olive oil into the baking dish.
“I told you, it’s a simple dish. Tastes delicious, though.”
“I want to do more things.”
Hunter puts the covered dish in the oven and sets the timer. “Tell you what, in 30 minutes, you can smash the tomatoes with a spoon. How’s that?”
“Sold,” I say as he moves closer. My arms rise, wrapping around his neck as he moves into my embrace. “But whatever will we do for the next 30 minutes?”
Hunter dips his head and kisses my jawline, locking his strong arms around my waist. “I have some ideas.”
I close my eyes. “Mm, you have such good ideas.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he murmurs, releasing me with one arm so he can reach behind me.
I’m not sure what he’s reaching for, but as he continues to nuzzle and kiss me, I don’t think much about it until all of a sudden, music starts playing.
The noise startles me, even though it’s lovely noise. I glance back uncertainly, looking at his phone on the counter.
My gaze shifts back to him as he puts the tiniest bit of space between us and takes my hand, tugging it away from our bodies as he starts to move.
My body naturally follows his, but I’m still somehow startled when I realize… we’re dancing.
“What are you doing?” I ask, a bit blankly.
“You can’t tell?” His eyes gleam with amusement as he smiles. “I must not be doing it right.”
“Are we… dancing in the kitchen while dinner cooks?”
“We are.”
I want to object, but I don’t know why.
His grip on my waist tightens and he pulls me closer. “We never got to finish our dance at homecoming,” he tells me.
My heart flutters a bit. My stomach feels funny.