Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Don’t say that shit like one of those isn’t significantly harder than the other one,” Slater chuckles in return, bright blue lettering weaving around the colors that are pumping from his speaker system.
“Oh, it is…” my mirth filled stare cuts across the island counter to his. “Just not the one you’re thinking, Cowboy.”
He throws his head back in laughter and not stopping everything I’m doing to drink in the sight is impossible.
Physically.
Impossible.
Like I’ve tried not to suspend my entire life to watch him laugh and I can’t do it.
It’s just too hypnotic.
And magical.
And comforting.
I always thought music was the ultimate sound of solace for me, but I was wrong.
This is.
His laughter never fails to make everything alright.
Once Slater’s chuckles die down, he adjusts his white Dalvegan Dragons t-shirt and warmly insists, “I really can help, Angel Cake. I may not be king of measurin’-”
“You’re not even a resident on measure island.”
“But I can do somethin’ else. I can help with somethin’ else. Pretty much anything else.”
“You already helped, Slater. I mean you bought all the ingredients-”
“I just added them onto our grocery list.”
“Which you won’t let me help pay for.”
“You don’t need to pay for them.” Folding his arms firmly across his chest is attached to retrieving a scowl. “Puttin’ aside the fact, you’re my…my…my…” the unsteady shading of his words indicates his uncertainty, “what you are,” he poorly declares, “the company is coverin’ all expenses, which includes, but isn’t limited to groceries. So really, neither of us are payin’ for them.”
“Uh-huh and are you keeping your receipts for your expense report?”
Slater feigns a clueless face.
“Have you started your expense report?”
The expression only deepens.
“Do you need me to create you an expense report?”
“You keep sayin’ expense report like that’s a real thing.”
“Ohmygod,” I mutter around more giggles. “Slater!”
Rather than argue, he simply grins wider.
What am I gonna do with him?!
You know aside from continuing to let him make me come multiple times in a day all around the penthouse.
Pretty sure the only reason he’s giving me space to bake versus finding a new corner for us to fool around in is because I started while he was in the other room with Blu discussing and creating tactical plans for infiltrating the property of the man that owns and operates the blackboard site that’s been posting the listings about me. While they haven’t been able to track the person directly who’s been targeting me, they managed to find the individual in charge so to speak. To my understanding, the plan is to get in, get him, and get access to the records – whatever records – he’s keeping in hopes of discovering a better lead.
And we know he’s keeping records because people like him always do.
It’s called leverage.
It’s the first thing you are prepared to pull out when you’re cornered by cops or the feds or a criminal organization you should’ve never pissed off.
“We both know buyin’ ingredients isn’t really helpin’,” my best friend turned fake boyfriend turned real friends with benefits sweetly rebuttals.
“Okay.” Placing the copper measuring cup down beside the other tools is gently done. “Can we agree then that buying me all new bakeware is helping?”
“Nope.” He glances around at the items I’m referencing. “This was a necessity since you couldn’t get to your personal bakeware.”
“And the new wedding themed cookbooks?”
“You needed research materials. Still doesn’t count.”
“And this bright pink, ‘hot stuff coming through’ apron?”
“Gear,” Slater replies without missing a beat. “You needed proper clothin’ for the mission at hand.”
Resisting the urge to laugh again isn’t even entertained.
“Now, what can I do to really help?” The corner of his lip curls upward. “You know I’m not afraid of gettin’ my hands dirty.” Heat instantly burns my cheeks prompting me to bite down on my bottom lip, an action that pushes him to purr, “I haven’t seen that look enough today.”
Maybe not, but he’s damn sure seen it plenty over the past seventy hours.
Rather than acknowledge his statement, I decide to switch subjects, “Why do you wanna help me bake?”
“Why do you wanna not let me help you bake?”
“It’s not that I don’t want your help-”
“It kinda feels like you don’t want my help.” Humor has his words bouncing through the air. “Is this because I didn’t know there was a special way to measure flour?”
“Cake flour.”
“Is it because I didn’t know there was a difference between flour and cake flour?”
Dropping my palms onto the nearby countertop is attached to an amused headshake. “No.”
“No, it’s not because I didn’t know the difference in the ingredients or no, it’s not because I’m not great at measurin’ in the kitchen?”
“Neither.” The wide mouth grin he inspires stays in place. “If you actually wanna help me bake, I will happily let you be my second, but if you’re only helping me because you think you have to help since you’re here or since it’s happening in our kitchen then I would rather do it alone. Baking brings me joy. And peace. And it’s one of the only places where I don’t feel like a giant weirdo for being so precise and overanalyzing every little detail during the process.”