Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
It’s then that I realize the table is already set with plates and napkins and cutlery. A vase with a bouquet of flowers and two already-lit candles sit in the center.
Holy moly, this is fancy. Like a romantic dinner date.
Well, even if it’s temporary, he is your husband.
An annoying pang sets up residence in my chest, but I don’t have time to question its cause because Flynn is leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
“You stay right here.”
“Right here?” I tease, smiling up at him. “In this chair?”
He smirks. “Yes.”
“What if there’s a fire?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“What if I have to go pee?”
“Hold it.”
“What if—”
He cuts me off with another kiss and proceeds to whisper firmly against my lips. “Keep that little ass of yours in this chair while I plate our food—or else.”
“Or else what?” I waggle my eyebrows. “You gonna spank me?”
“Oh, baby, don’t tempt me.” A deep, hearty chuckle rumbles his chest, but before I can do exactly that, he’s turning on his heel and heading back to the stove to plate our dinner.
Forget the dumb stove and spank me with your penis!
Okay…that was weird.
Mind you, the dinner smells delicious, but all that spanking talk has my appetite focused on something else. A myriad of dirty-as-hell thoughts fill my head, and I shift a little in my seat.
There has to be a way to put a pause on this dinner and revisit it a later time… I mean, that’s what microwaves are for, right?
“Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking and prepare to enjoy the feast you demanded.”
I look up to meet Flynn’s amused gaze as he sets two platefuls of fettuccine Alfredo with garlic bread on the table.
“How do you know what I was thinking?”
“Because you’ve got that look,” he answers cryptically and sits down in the chair across from mine.
“What look?”
He just smirks, doesn’t answer my question, and grabs his fork to dig in.
“I didn’t have a look,” I state, but he is completely unfazed. “I didn’t have a look,” I repeat, but Flynn just twirls pasta around his fork to take a big bite.
“Eat your food, babe,” he says once he finishes chewing. “After dinner, if you want to try to tempt me into spanking your sassy ass, be my guest.”
Damn, can he read me that well?
I put on a show of acting like I’m innocent and narrow my eyes at him. “I wasn’t thinking about that.”
“Then what were you thinking about?” he challenges, calling my bluff.
“Uh…” I pause. Shit. “Um…couch…es…I was thinking about couches. For a new listing.”
His steady gaze drips with “I call bullshit.”
“Shut up,” I retort on a snort and proceed to take my first bite of Flynn’s fettuccine Alfredo. The instant the creamy pasta hits my taste buds, I practically fall out of my chair over how damn good it is. “Holy hell, you can, like, really cook.”
Flynn looks up from his plate, and I don’t miss the amusement that flashes across his eyes. “Were you expecting something inedible?”
“No… Well, maybe? I don’t know, but this is insanely good,” I answer, and an apologetic smile lifts the corners of my mouth. “I wasn’t doubting your cooking skills. I just didn’t know what to expect.”
“You were expecting something revolting, which is why you brought home two bags of groceries,” he retorts with a sly grin.
“I wasn’t.”
He just stares at me.
“Okay, fine. I was. I mean, I hoped you would exceed my expectations, but just in case the meal didn’t turn out, I grabbed a few easy-to-make options to have on hand as a backup.”
“You brought home microwavable freezer meals, babe. I think it’s safe to say you were anticipating a fucking disaster.”
“I wasn’t!” I exclaim through several giggles. “I mean, I might’ve had the fire department on standby just in case, but…”
A soft, raspy chuckle jumps from his lungs.
“So…is this meal a one-hit wonder? Or can you cook more things?” I question and take another bite of my pasta. “Because, seriously, Flynn, this is otherworldly.”
“I can cook, Dais. Lots of shit,” he comments. “And I do recall I’ve made you a few things before. Steak. Eggs. Grilled chicken.”
Okay, he has a point. He has cooked for me a time or two, but this is, like, gourmet kind of cooking. The type of cooking that involves spices I’ve probably never even heard of.
“And how did you learn this awesome skill?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “My mom, my aunt Paula, a few cooking classes here and there.”
“Wait…Flynn Winslow took cooking classes?”
He furrows his brow. “That’s strange to you?”
“I don’t know…” I look up at the ceiling and then back at him. “Maybe? I mean, you’re like the big, bad, sexy leather-jacket dude on a Harley, but you also cook like Julia flipping Child? It’s unexpected.”
He just smirks and dives back into his food.
And since I’m starving and this is the best damn fettuccine Alfredo I’ve ever tasted in my life, I do the same. But also, I make a mental note of the newest insight into Mr. Mystery.