Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“I like my sleep too,” I tell Dozer, giving him one last rubdown, then give Cooper a hug so he knows I still love him and stand up. “Did you hear anything from the police about yesterday?” I ask Aiden over my shoulder as I head to the kitchen to check on dinner.
“No, since I’m not pressing charges against the driver of the truck that hit me, I didn’t need to contact them.”
“But what about the biker who was driving like a lunatic?”
“I doubt the cops will be able to track him down, since no one got his plate number.”
“Jerk,” I mutter, finishing washing my hands before I go to the oven and open it to check on the salmon that I brushed with a simple mixture of olive oil and dry Italian dressing.
“I did speak to Noah when I picked up Dozer. He finally had a chance to look into that number that’s been texting you, and all he could find out is whoever is messaging you is using a burner phone.”
“What does that mean?” I grab sour cream, wasabi, and two limes from the fridge.
“That it’s untraceable,” he tells me, and I rub my lips together, not sure what to do with that information.
“He sent me a message yesterday from a new number. Do you think it’s the same thing?”
“He sent you a message yesterday?” he repeats, and my nose scrunches at his tone. “What did he say?”
“Just to talk to him.” I shrug. “I blocked the number.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?” he asks, leaning onto the island across from me.
“I don’t know.” I tip my head to the side and bat my lashes. “Maybe I was distracted by the fact that you had gotten hit by a car.” I roll my eyes at him, then add the wasabi to the sour cream and start zesting some of the lime into the bowl. “Besides—” I wave out a hand toward him as I go to get a knife. “—eventually, he’ll realize that I’m not going to talk to him, and he’ll give up.”
“Babe, you changed your cell number, and he got your new one, then you blocked him, and he got a new number so he could message you again. I’d say it’s safe to assume that he’s not going to just fucking give up.”
“He will,” I disagree, then chop one of the limes in half and start squeezing the juice into the bowl. “And besides that, I didn’t tell him where I live or anything, so it’s not like he’s going to show up here.”
“So you didn’t give him your number?”
“You know I did.” I sigh when his jaw starts to tic.
“Is your cell private?”
“What do you mean?”
“Could someone use your cell phone number to find your address?” he asks, and I stop what I’m doing to focus on him.
“My number is attached to my family’s cell phone plan. My sisters and I never got off our parents’ account, since we could never get the deal they have. Instead, we send our mom the money each month for whatever we owe.” I chew the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know for sure that my information is private, but knowing my dad, it probably is. He’s way overprotective and paranoid when it comes to his family,” I tell him and vow to ask my dad tomorrow if our numbers on his account are private. I’m sure they are, but the idea of Mike—or whoever he is—tracking down my parents’ address does not sit well with me.
“I want you to tell me if he messages you again.”
“Okay,” I agree easily, and he walks around the counter and comes to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Now tell me what you’re making?”
“It’s just a cream sauce to eat with the salmon and rice.” I tilt my head to the side as he lowers his mouth to my exposed neck and shiver when the scruff of his jaw rubs against my sensitive skin.
“It has wasabi in it?” He reaches around me to pick up the bright green tube from the counter.
“Yes, wasabi, lime juice, and lime zest, along with pink salt.” I finish blending the mixture, then dip my finger into the sauce and hold it up for him to taste. “What do you think?” I ask when he releases my finger.
“It’s good.” He turns me to face him and cages me in between him and the counter. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“My parents.” I grip his sides as he brushes his nose across mine. “D-Do you know how to cook?”
“No, growing up, we had someone who cooked for our family, and when I moved out on my own, I was always on the go, so I would pick something up.”
“You had a chef growing up?”