Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“I’ll see what we’ve got.” He shoots me a quick smile. “One cup of tea with…”
I quickly fill in the blanks. “White. Two sugars. And strong enough to stand the spoon in, please.”
“Coming right up.”
“Two sugars?” Raif questions with his eyebrows.
“Yep.” I take a seat next to Daisy as I pop the p. “You look like you can afford it.”
“Might as well have a bowl of ice cream,” he says, opening and closing drawers on the other side of the island.
“Except my mouth asked for tea.”
Daisy giggles, covering the adorable sounds with her hand.
“Okay. I give in. Where are the ice cream dishes?” he asks with a touch of exasperation.
The little girl points at the bank of overhead cabinets.
Who the heck doesn’t know where the bowls are kept? In a kitchen in the house that he lives in. A man with as many homes as I have pairs of shoes. And a personal chef, I suppose.
Bowls retrieved, he finds a couple of spoons and a scoop, depositing a symmetrical portion into one bowl.
“There you are.” He slides the bowl over the marble countertop before picking up the second tub and popping the lid. Not ice cream but gelato, I notice by the label. Not that I’m sure of the difference between the two. “Daisy, do you remember when you asked me why I wasn’t married?” he begins, his tone conversational.
Daisy nods, and covering her rosebud mouth with her hand, she asks me politely to pass her a napkin from a nearby silver dish. I do, and she pats her mouth delicately, like a miniature little lady. Odd for a girl of her age. My nephews and niece are much younger, and it doesn’t seem all that long ago Polly was complaining to either Primrose or me for talking while munching at the dinner table. She’d say she could see the food in our mouths moving around like clothes in a washing machine.
It’s not a great visual, now that I think about it. But Polly did raise a brood of hooligans.
“Yes,” Daisy eventually says, smoothing her napkin out. “You said you don’t have a wife because you haven’t found the right lady yet.”
Lady. I snort, turning it into a fake cough. “Excuse me.”
“That’s right.” He opens his mouth, but Daisy beats him to it.
“And then when I asked why you didn’t have a girlfriend, you said it was because they are expensive.”
“I said that?”
She nods earnestly. “But then you brought Celine home for dinner, and she looked like she cost a lot of money.”
“Celine wasn’t—”
“Maria said she was a puta.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sam appear from the pantry. Then he does this thing that reminds me of the Homer Simpson meme where he backs into the bush he just emerged from. He takes my tea with him. Can’t say I blame him as I press my elbow to the marble and cover my smile with my hand. Puta is not a nice word.
“Did she really?” Raif asks. And Daisy nods again.
“Well.” He sighs and taps the contents of his tub with his spoon. “I can’t say I completely disagree with her,” he mutters.
I wonder if Celine was the fiancée. I’d rather eat my own feet than ask.
“What is a puta?” Daisy asks. “I asked Sẽnora Marta in my Spanish lesson, and she crossed herself like she was at Mass. She said if she heard me say it again, she would wash my mouth out with soup and water.”
A snicker slips free of my lips. Nothing I can do about it this time, but I still clear my throat. “Gosh, I’m so thirsty. I can’t wait for my cuppa to arrive.” Hear that, Sam? Now might be a good time for us all.
“I think that was mean, don’t you?” she asks her uncle. “I only asked her a question.” She turns her expression my way. “And watery soup doesn’t sound very delicious, does it?”
“Sounds rotten,” I agree.
“I don’t even like regular soup,” she says, picking up her spoon again. “Especially gazpacho. It’s cold, and it has tomatoes in it.”
“She has a point. Soup is never going to rock anyone’s world,” I say.
“Here we go.” Whether hearing my plea or taking advantage of the pause in our conversation, Sam delivers on his second attempt.
“Thank you.” I smile up at him as he places a white cup paired with a slightly elongated saucer next to my elbow. On the saucer sits a couple of tiny but very fancy pistachio-speckled biscuits.
“The petit fours were made fresh this morning,” Sam adds. He looks to his boss. “What time would you like dinner served, sir?”
“The usual time would be fine.”
Sam nods. “I’ll be down in the cellar if you need anything else.”
His sneakers squeak as he leaves the room. Raif puts down his ice cream, the spoon jutting from it like Excalibur in the stone.