Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Jonas exhales slowly. “What a pair we make.”
“You can say that again.” I tentatively sip my coffee. It’s barely cool enough to drink, but that’s okay. “This is really good.”
“I know.”
Things threaten to spiral into awkwardness, so I pull together the tattered shreds of my pride. “Thank you for your advice. I’ll think about it.”
Jonas drinks his coffee, his focus on the rain falling in sheets outside the window. “You’ll figure it out one way or another.” The quiet confidence in his voice isn’t feigned. I don’t think he’d know how to feign something like that. He’s too frank, too honest. He’d never say such a thing if he didn’t mean it.
That knowledge warms me far more than it should. My parents believe in me, but they’re biased. Even when I fuck up, they act like I walk on water. It would never occur to them that I might fail. It’s the same with my friends. They offer advice when I want it, but they aren’t in this industry and don’t really know all the pitfalls awaiting me.
Jonas does.
He still has the utmost belief that I’ll figure it out.
“Thank you,” I finally manage.
“Don’t thank me. It’s the truth.” He sets his mug down and gives me his full attention. “I’d like you to do something for me.”
The heat is back in his gaze, signaling that we’re shifting into safer—sexier—territory. “Okay.”
“You’re not going to ask what it is?” He arches his brows. “You have a lot of trust in me, baby girl.”
The thing is… I do. I trust him a whole hell of a lot. Far more than I should off twelve hours of fucking. It makes sense, though. Even if I have only seen Jonas in passing since that Christmas party, he’s still a pillar in my life. An unseen one most of the time, but my father really does talk about him so much, it’s as if he’s in constantly in the room. I know far more about him than I would about some random person I’d hook up with.
I lick my lips. “What would you like me to do?”
Jonas leans back. “Bake me cookies.”
17
I blink. “Um, what?” Of all the things I expected to come out of his mouth, baking cookies didn’t make the list. It wasn’t even in the realm of possibilities.
“Bake me cookies,” Jonas repeats. He reaches out and twins a lock of my hair around his finger. “Your father talks about your chocolate chip cookies all the fucking time, and I want to see if they live up to their reputation.”
I thought maybe he’d bend me over the counter and fuck me senseless. He wants me to…bake cookies. Obviously there’s more to it than that. He wouldn’t be looking like me like he wants to eat me if that wasn’t the case. I slowly push to my feet and smooth down the shirt. “I can do that.”
I make it three steps into the kitchen before he tsks. “Forgetting something?”
The desire to please him, the realization that no matter what I do, it won’t happen because this fantasy is intentionally setting me up for failure... It all twists up inside me, sizzling through my veins. I turn back to face him. “I don’t think so?”
“Cute.” He jerks his chin at the pantry. “Back of the door.”
I duck into the pantry to find what he’s talking about, and stop short at the sight of a pink frilly apron. It looks like something a 1950s housewife would wear, every hair in place and her makeup perfect. It even has lace.
Who does it belong to?
I shove the thought down deep. It’s none of my business if this belongs to some ex of his. It shouldn’t bother me because we’re just playing pretend. It shouldn’t…but it does. I clear my throat. “Interesting fashion choice.”
“Fishing for information?” His low chuckle makes me shiver. “It was a gag gift from my sister last Christmas. I’ve worn it for exactly one photo to get her to stop pestering me. No one else has.”
Relief makes me a little light-headed. I lift the apron off its hook. He’s going to want me to wear it naked. So the question is do I want to try to anticipate his desires, or do I want to make him shake his head at me again?
Really, it’s an easy choice.
I put it on over the shirt, tying it around my neck and waist. It’s not a good look. The excess T-shirt fabric bunches unattractively and no doubt I look ridiculous. I fight down a grin and walk back into the kitchen. “I guess I’ll get to work.”
“Baby girl.” There it is. That exasperation mixed with disappointment. “You must be joking.”
“What?” I make a show of looking at myself. “You wanted me to put on the apron, right?”
Jonas takes a long drink of his mug and sets it down on the counter with a click that sounds like a gunshot in the room. He rises and makes his way to me. There’s a faint element of menace in his posture, and a thrill of sexy fear goes through me.