Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
When I was dating Stephan, I tossed and turned all night. He cursed my insomnia. Some nights, he gave up and slept on the couch. Or I slept on the couch to keep from disturbing him.
It didn’t bother me. I never understood the romance of sleeping next to someone. It’s not as if I absorb the closeness while unconscious.
Right now, feeling the warmth River left, inhaling the faint scent of his shampoo—
There is something about it, something intimate about the sheer domesticity.
After I sneak to the ensuite bathroom and move through my morning routine, I slip into my silk button-up shirt and shorts and meet River in the main room.
He smiles the second he sees me. Then he notices my attire and his smile shifts from I’m happy to see you to damn, I really see you.
He does. Which is strange.
I’ve been on two dozen dates with “great matches” and none of them see me. He does. Why? Is it the algorithm or me or some other factor?
The question dissolves as his eyes pass over me. Desire pushes all my thoughts aside. Then I notice the rest of him—he’s only wearing boxers—and my brain shifts into full want mode.
Must have River now.
It feels so good, to release my thoughts, to not live in my head, even if it’s for a minute.
“Good morning.” He says it with ease, like he’s said it to me a million times.
“Morning.” The words are more awkward on my tongue. I don’t remember the last time I invited someone to sleep with me. Even with Stephan, I rarely stuck around for long enough to see him in the mornings. I had to run, or finish work, or study.
He motions to the ceramic pot on the counter. “Tea?”
“Are you going to offer crumpets, too?”
“Eggs Benedict.”
“And I’m the fancy one?”
“It’s easier than you’d think.” He motions to the table. “Sit. I’ll bring it when it’s done.”
I don’t follow his instructions. I meet him at the counter and wrap my arms around him. He’s warm and hard and safe. I don’t remember the last time someone felt this safe.
“You keep distracting me and I’ll burn breakfast.”
“We could skip breakfast.”
“Do I need to tie you to the bed to make you behave?” His voice drops to something low and breathy.
“Yes.”
“Later.”
It’s appealing. Very appealing. But it’s scary, too. Trusting anyone that much. How much I want to trust him everywhere.
Despite my desire to test his claim, I go easy on River. I fix a mug of tea and slide onto the kitchen island, watching him work from the table. I’m close enough to see the muscles in his back, but not so close I absolutely have to touch him.
He melts butter and blends eggs with the comfort and ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times.
“Do you normally cook like this?” I ask.
“On weekdays, I keep it simple. Eggs and toast.”
“That’s simple?”
“Compared to what your personal chef makes.”
“I don’t have a personal chef.” My cheeks flush. “Or any chef. I microwave my oatmeal myself.”
“You eat oatmeal?”
“What’s wrong with oatmeal?”
“It’s plain for you,” he says.
“I add raisins and cinnamon.”
He laughs.
“Am I that funny?”
“Yeah.” He slips English muffins into the toaster. “You’re determined not to be the person people think you are. But you’re not sure who that is, so you change tracks all the time.”
“I do not.”
“And if I said you seem like a girl who loves a simple breakfast?”
It’s true. I shouldn’t care what other people think of me, but I do. I hate when people assume I’ve never worked hard, or done anything for myself, because of my last name. I didn’t ask for it. I understand I grew up with privileges other people never experienced: great schools, a beautiful, safe neighborhood, access to anything I want to do. But I don’t like when people erase my effort. My loss. It’s not like it hurt less, losing Mom, because we had plenty of money. I spent more than half my life without her. “I’d say you’re right. I’ve fixed my own oatmeal since I was thirteen.”
“Do you cook anything else?”
“Do sandwiches count?” I ask.
“If you heat them.”
“Grilled cheese?”
He laughs. “The Huntington family sitting down to grilled cheese. I don’t see it.”
“Why do you think we’re so different than you? We live next door.”
“You’re right.” He nods as he flips the ham. “I was in awe the first time I saw my grandma’s house. I didn’t want to fit in there. I didn’t want to be a part of this world. My mom and I lived in an apartment in Riverside. We didn’t have any of Grandma’s money. She’d— How much do you know about my family?”
“Only what you and Ida have told me,” I say.
“What does she say about my mom?” he asks.
“She’s not in the picture.”
“Anything else?”
I shake my head.