Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Who are Paul and Nyle?” His eyes are firmly planted on my charcuterie board.
I lean over my tray using my entire body. “Stop staring at this food.”
“Can’t help it. I’m hungry.”
“You just ate.”
“Um?” He spreads his arms wide. “Have you seen me lately?”
He’s not kidding. Every time he enters a room, it instantly shrinks in size.
“That’s not the point.” I pause. “The point is, you cannot be down here.” I pause again. “I’ve already let them know we don’t have all night to sit around. They’ll be gone by eight.”
His eyebrow shoots into his hairline. “You gave your friends a time limit?”
“Yes. They won’t care. We do it all the time.” Is it just me, or do I sound defensive? “Nyle is a doctor, so he never stays out late, according to Anna. He gets up super early.”
“Oh, Nyle is a doctor and gets up early.” Duke rolls his eyes, unimpressed.
“I’m just saying—you won’t be stuck up there long, and you can eat the leftovers.”
“Are you fuckin’ with me right now?”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“You’re gonna feed me leftovers?” His eyes are wide again, the spoiled brat stunned by my audacity.
“This is a lot of food.” There will be leftovers. Chill out, dude.
“So let me get this straight. I have to sit upstairs for two hours and wait for snacks?”
“No, feel free to make yourself a snack. I’m not your housekeeper. Be my guest. Help yourself to the kitchen, but everyone will be here in a half hour.”
“Fine. I’ll make my own damn snack.” He stares at my board again. “Where do I get one of those plate things?”
“This?” I lift the corner. “I have one left, and it’s in that cabinet.” I point at the cabinet above the fridge, and he immediately stomps over, pulling it out.
“Now what?”
He’s looking at me but makes no move to grab anything edible.
I shrug. “I don’t know—choose a few things that sound good.”
His eyes stray to the board. “I want what’s on there.”
“Then go get it.” Jeez, why is this so hard? Didn’t his mother teach him his way around the kitchen? “How do you survive on a daily basis?”
“I told you—I have a housekeeper and a cook.”
“Pfft,” I scoff. “Do they wait on you hand and foot?”
“No, but Cook makes sure I always have snacks.”
“Good for you.” Way to be rich and successful enough for both people to work in your home. Meanwhile, us peasants have to cook, clean, and fend for ourselves.
Duke taps on the tray. “Now what?”
I jerk my head toward the fridge. “Most of it is in there.”
Robot-like in his movements, he does what he’s told and goes to the fridge, hunting around for the grapes, meat, and cheese. He lifts out a jar of petite pickles and holds it in my direction. “What if I want some of these?”
I roll my eyes. “Then put some of those on your board. Why are you making this so difficult?” I’m so irritated! “My kindergarteners can do this blindfolded without fifty instructions.”
“That sounds like an insult.”
“Because it is.”
Duke’s surprise is evident. I can tell he was expecting me to deny it, so when I don’t, his mouth falls open a fraction.
Pouting, he jams his fingers into the pickle jar and pulls out a handful, plopping them onto the round wooden charcuterie board. Juice rolls out from beneath them, causing him to frown.
“It’s making a mess.”
“No, you’re making a mess. If you take them out one at a time or put them in a small bowl, the juice won’t get on anything else.”
Duh.
“Where are the small bowls?”
With a loud sigh, I fetch him several small bowls. “I don’t have time to be doing this for you. I have things I’d like to go do before my friends get here. Can you handle this by yourself?”
“I’m twenty-four years old. Of course I can handle this on my own.”
Twenty-four years old! Holy shit!
I rear back as if he’s stunned me with a taser. The fact that he’s so young… wow. Was. Not. Expecting. That.
Why did I think he was older?
Because he’s so rich.
Because he’s so successful.
Because he has a housekeeper and a cook, and you’re barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck.
He’s watching me rather than filling the board with bits. “What?”
“Nothing.” I’m shaking my head. “I just…you’re twenty-four.”
“So?” He’s still looking at me oddly. “How old are you?”
I swallow. “Twenty-nine.”
Almost thirty, actually. My birthday is at the end of the month.
“Practically an old lady,” he teases, resuming his task, setting another small bowl on the board and dumping olives into it—and a shit ton of olive juice.
I try not to critique since I said he had to do it on his own, but by golly, it’s almost impossible not to.
“All right, well. If you need anything holler.” On second thought. “Maybe don’t.”
“Did you hear that?” Kate has her head cocked to the side as we sit around the dining room table, her wineglass poised for another sip.