Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 134133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“What do we have here?” I ask, eyeing up the fresh pack of cage-free chicken and package of fresh pasta on the counter.
“Groceries. I bought stuff to make dinner.”
“Ooh. What are we having?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to look at what I bought and see what we can make with it.”
I crack a smile. “Hey, I’m sure many delicious dinners were made that way.”
“We have the essentials in the cabinets already, anyway. Olena did some shopping for us earlier.”
“Well, I’ve never made this kind of pasta before, so let’s see how to prepare it.” I pull aside the bag of carrots and the fresh loaf of Italian bread. “We’ll definitely use these. I’m thinking maybe pasta primavera. That’s a good ‘throw it all together’ kind of dish.”
He slides a container of freshly grated parmesan cheese across the counter.
“Thank you. Did you happen to get peas?”
He grabs a bag of them and slides it to me.
“Nice. You did really good for a spoiled rich boy who’s never cooked a day in his life,” I tease.
He smirks, abandoning the bag and coming over to wrap his arms around me from behind. “And how was your day?”
My heart skips a beat. Of course he would stand behind me—where I can’t see his face—to ask about my day. “Not bad. Yours?”
“It’s better now.” He kisses my neck. “What do you need me to do for dinner?”
“Um… You can put a pot of water on to cook the pasta. Have you done that before?”
He lets me go and heads to the cupboards, opening a couple before he finds the one with the pots. “Nope.”
“Make sure you salt it.”
“Salt what?”
I crack a smile. “The water.”
He reaches into the upper cabinet for the salt. “Are you enjoying your new psych class?”
I pause since he’s now indirectly referencing the class he made me drop with Professor DeMarco. “Yeah, it seems good so far.”
He’s salting the pasta water, so his back is still to me.
“Did anything else happen today?” he asks idly.
My stomach rocks. Is this it? Did he hear the call and now he’s fishing for me to tell him about it?
“Um… I don’t think so, not really.” I clear my throat and shuffle ingredients around on the counter, then I look over at him again, but he’s putting the freaking salt away now so I still can’t see his face.
When he finally turns, he leans against the counter and crosses his arms. He’s watching me, but I can’t read his expression. I can’t tell if he’s shielding something, or there’s just nothing to shield. “Nothing else?”
I lick my lips. His words carry the weight of expectation, so I’m braced for him to say something about it.
He watches me, waiting. When I don’t say anything, he says, “You didn’t get any… strange follow requests?”
What?
Then it hits me.
I was so preoccupied with my thing, I completely forgot his mom followed me on social media today.
Well, that settles it.
He hasn’t had a chance to review his tapes or whatever. He doesn’t know about the phone call.
I feel strangely relieved. The bulk of the anxiety melts out of me, and I smile, triggering an answering smirk from him.
“Oh, yeah. I completely forgot about that. Your mom and I are social media buddies now. She liked a bunch of my old pictures like a total stalker. Is a follow request from your dad coming next?” I joke.
He shakes his head, pushing off the counter and coming to join me at the island. “As you might expect, he doesn’t do social media. I think he has a profile somewhere that his assistant set up for him so she could tag him in certain things, but it has zero posts, and he has never logged into it.”
“I can’t even imagine your father on social media. I can’t even picture him on a computer. Your dad is frozen in the 1920’s in my head, reading his physical newspapers and entertaining sketchy people at the family restaurant with his devoted moll by his side.”
“Yeah, they’re kind of throwbacks.”
“Probably why you’re so… unique.”
He laughs. “That’s a word.”
An odd swell of protectiveness wells up inside me. I don’t know where it comes from. His words might be playfully self-deprecating, but it’s not like I’m unaware of his ego. I know he’s perfectly fine with who he is.
Even the joking sense that he isn’t bothers me, though. It makes not one bit of sense.
I look over at him. “Can I ask you something?”
He loses the smile, sensing I’m serious, and nods. “Of course.”
“It’s personal. I’m just curious. We’ve never really talked about it. I’m not even sure how exactly to ask.”
His brows draw together fleetingly and he kind of smiles like I’m being weird. Which is fair because I am. “All right…”
“Um… Well, surely you realize your courting habits are a bit odd.”