Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
He places the kitchen knife in my hand, showing me how to hold it. He guides it, putting his big, work-roughened hands over mine. “Like this.”
I lean back against him, seeking his warmth. I press my back to his front and the rightness of the posture makes a contented hum come from my throat.
But I don’t think Rafael likes it because he growls. It’s a low, menacing sound that a predator would make. Before I can analyze it, he steps away from me.
Rejection stings, causing my cheeks to heat. I clear my throat and try to get us back on solid ground. I try to think of something that might be a safe topic. “Who taught you how to cook?”
Behind me, Rafe swallows hard. For a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer, then he explains, “One of my foster moms.”
“Were you close to her?”
He says nothing.
I want to ask a million questions, but I don’t. Maybe in time my future husband will open up to me. Maybe in time, he’ll trust me with his secrets.
“It’s time to roll the bread.”
For this task, he hands me the rolling pin. “Get it as flat as possible.”
Even though he stepped away a moment ago, he once again covers my hands with his. Another flare of attraction goes through me. Does he feel this, too? Does he feel the same zing of awareness?
He hands me another knife when we’re done. “Now apply the peanut butter with even strokes.”
I glance at his face, attempting to read his emotions. Something in his expression makes me think he’s not as unaffected by my presence as he likes to pretend. He likes me too. But for some reason, he’s holding himself back. Does it have to do with the fact that I’m the princess? Or is it because he’s unwilling to leave this life he’s built for himself of rugged independence?
I’m afraid to ask these questions out loud and drive him further away. So instead, I listen to his instructions and follow along until we have very flat sandwiches.
“Now what?” They’re flat blobs of bread with peanut butter and jelly on them. There’s no way to pick them up.
“Now, we close them and fry them.” He shows me how to close the sandwich and heats oil in a frying pan. “Everyone should know how to fry a sandwich. It’s one of life’s little pleasures.”
“And this will taste good?” I ask again as I put my sandwich in the pan. He’s still standing so close to me and yet he’s not touching me. The distance between us feels like a chasm that I desperately want to close.
As soon as the sandwiches are cooked, he shows me how to dust them with powdered sugar before we take them to the back porch. We sit side by side on the steps.
I bite into mine and barely contain a groan. The warm peanut butter is gooey and perfectly mixes with the grape jam. The sweet, crusty outside has the perfect amount of crunch. “This is so good.”
I look up to see Rafe watching me chew and for a moment, I’m worried I have something on my face. But then he looks away and takes a bite of his own food. “My foster mom taught me how to make these. She was…number seven, I think. Anyway, she was my favorite. Never got mad at me for not knowing how to do stuff that regular people already know.”
“Like cooking,” I say softly, the pieces falling into place. Maybe Rafael and I aren’t so different. He was deprived of learning about the world in a different way. While I was intentionally sheltered, he was never taught by a caring adult. “Do you still talk to her?”
He shakes his head. “No, uh, they had three biological sons. One of them got sick and well, it was expensive, so they had to cut costs somewhere.”
“I don’t follow.”
He swallows the rest of his sandwich in one big bite. “They sent me back to social services. One less mouth to feed. Plus, you know physical therapy isn’t cheap.”
“Physical therapy?” I think my mom had that after a horse-riding accident when I was young. I thought it was something only injured people do.
“For cerebral palsy,” he explains. “It’s why my body…doesn’t. Why I don’t move easy and can’t always relax some muscles. It’s a movement disorder.”
“But you don’t have a wheelchair,” I say and immediately blush. “It’s just that I’ve seen people with it on the internet. They’re usually a lot worse than you. I mean, it’s not a competition...oh, I’m messing this up. I want to be supportive and say the right things, and I don’t know what they are.”
Half his mouth tips up in an almost smile. “Like a lot of conditions, it exists on a spectrum. One person might be severely affected to the point of being permanently disabled. Another person may only be affected mildly, to the point that they can be perceived as healthy.”