Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Dad walks past my bedroom and down the hallway.
I hear the shower running from their en suite bathroom from the other side of the house.
I roll over, adjusting the pillows, knowing I can’t do it tonight. I can’t stop thinking about Dad staring at me like he hates me, a way he’s never stared at me before, his features all twisted up.
Dad’s such a kind and patient person, which is why he became a nurse, dedicating his life to helping people.
But this would be too much for even his powers of understanding. He wouldn’t be able to forgive this.
He’d never be able to let it go.
He might disown me.
No, he’d never do that.
I’m letting my thoughts stampede ahead, and yet there’s some truth in there. I’m not sure Dad would disown me. He might even make an effort to show me patience and love.
Beneath it all, resentment would be bubbling, maybe staying hidden forever.
But still there.
In his eyes, in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not conscious of it…yeah, that’d be it. The pain of knowing he hates me for my desire, but he’s too loyal to let it show.
I roll over again, reminding myself all of this is irrelevant anyway.
It would only matter if Damien wanted me in the same way I want him.
And that’s never going to happen.
Any progress?
My hand lurches for my phone the second it vibrates.
It’s early afternoon, and I’m sitting at my desk, my ideas pad open, trying to get my brain to storm. But there’s too much Damien in there to make room for his business.
At least it’s a Saturday, meaning I have the entire weekend to work on this before returning to the office Monday.
My gaze lingers on the kiss from last night. I stare hard as though it means a whole lot, as though we weren’t sending completely innocent kisses to each other last night.
Do you want to see my progress?
I send the text quickly, not letting myself doubt. A smile touches my lips as I raise the camera and take a photo of my messy desk.
Sure.
I send the photo with the caption, Don’t worry. If I ever work at the restaurant itself, I’ll be neater. I know how much you like a clean kitchen.
Waiting for him to text back feels like some sort of punishment, as I wonder if I went too far by sending a photo.
But then he texts back, I’m sure there’s some method to your madness. Actually, I’m not. Have you ever considered you might just be a little bit crazy, Danielle?
I laugh aloud, imagining him saying my name in that deep husky voice, the one I’ve heard so many times on TV. Last night returns to me, the moment my hand was between my legs, fantasies of him flurrying through my mind with double force now.
I think you might be right there. Don’t worry, though. There is SOME sense in this, I promise.
I trust your judgment.
I bite down on my lip, trying to stop the silly fluttering in my belly. It’s like those butterflies people always talk about, but I’ve never felt them.
Not for any of the boys in high school and not for any of the men at my office.
For no one except Damien, the crush goes back to when I was a kid.
But I’m not a kid anymore.
What if he still sees me as one, too immature, too Max’s-freaking-daughter to ever be of any interest?
How do you know I like a clean kitchen, anyway?
I wonder if I can lie or somehow mask the truth that I’ve watched his show five times in total. Of course, it was never for the cooking since that doesn’t interest me much, but just watching Damien.
I’ve watched your show, I write, hoping he takes that to mean once or twice. And not like a hundred times. I think I remember one episode where you got a little mad at the kitchen being a mess.
Haha, yes, I remember, he writes back quickly. That was all for TV, Danielle. Or mostly. Running a regular kitchen in that way would be counterproductive. Don’t get me wrong. A man has to be stern sometimes. But shouting at people will only get you so far.
My pulse quickens. I swear I can feel it in my neck, twitching away.
How much of ‘you’ were you in the show then? If that makes sense.
I type out the message quickly, only realizing after how far outside the scope of what we’re supposed to be doing it is.
But Damien doesn’t seem to mind.
He texts back half a minute later.
I want to run a successful restaurant, help younger chefs, and spread the word about good food. That’s all real. And some of the shouting is too. But a lot of it is managed.
I wonder why he’s telling me this. Perhaps he doesn’t want me to think of him as some cruel, tough guy, but I never thought of him that way anyway. He never went too far in the TV show, not like some TV chefs.