Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
I shuffle forward, training my stare on the back of the woman who was so eager to get to this bland food.
“I don’t have room to talk,” he continues, his voice washing over my shoulders and neck, the deep rumble raising long-forgotten goose bumps. “I’m not a chef myself, but I’m not catering this event, so I don’t have to be.”
“True.” I release a laugh, not looking back even though I can feel his stare burning between my shoulder blades.
“Maybe it’s better than it looks,” he says, the faint sounds of him serving himself reaching me from behind.
“It’s not.” I even my voice out, irritated that I’m so disconcerted by a man doing nothing more than getting his food in the buffet line. “Pretty sure a Callahan cousin caters this party every year, so you’ll soon be enjoying the sweet taste of nepotism.”
“Explains a lot. You cook?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You any good at it?” he asks, amusement threading the question.
I pause and glance over my shoulder, allowing a small grin. “I’m actually really good at it.”
“A confident woman.” His smile melts at the corners as our eyes hold. “I like it.”
I hastily turn back around and move forward with the line, scooping a lumpy mound of potatoes onto my plate.
“What’s your favorite dish to make?” he asks.
I smile but don’t risk facing him again. “Carne guisada.”
“Come again? I don’t know what that is. Carne sounds like steak or beef.”
“It is. It’s a beef stew we make in Puerto Rico.”
“You’re from Puerto Rico?”
“I wasn’t born there,” I admit, “but my grandmother lived there, and we’d visit her during the summers. She taught me how to cook many things, but carne guisada is my favorite. It’s the best comfort food. I make it for my family all the time.”
The word “family” lands in the air, weighing it down a moment before he speaks. “What division do you work in? I’ve only been here a year, but I would have remembered seeing you.”
At that I look over my shoulder and our glances tangle. My breath hovers between my lungs and my lips, trapped in my chest as he waits for my answer.
“I don’t work here.” I lick my lips and lower my eyes but force myself to look back up. “My husband does.”
His expression turns inscrutable, but something, a distant cousin to disappointment, rises in his eyes before he crushes it.
“Your husband.” He nods and turns his attention to the buffet, eschewing the green beans but transferring a conservative dollop of potatoes to his plate. “Lucky man.”
I manage a wan smile and face forward, knowing it’s best we end the conversation there but hating to leave. It’s not just sex Edward has been stingy with lately. It’s attention. Conversation. Interest. All the things I found unexpectedly in a few moments with a stranger, and it feels like the sun on my face after winter. So hard to turn away from that warmth when you’ve stood out in the cold.
The touch at my elbow makes me jump and almost drop my plate.
“Whoa,” Edward says, chuckling and reaching to steady my hand. “You okay?”
“Yes, of course.” I smile up at him and force my eyes not to stray to the quiet man behind him. My tiny prickle of guilt is unfounded, unreasonable.
“Great.” Edward plucks a cherry tomato from the salad I don’t even recall putting on my plate. “Sorry about that. Amber was working on something before we left the office and needed to update me.”
“Sure,” I answer absently, unable to even arouse my suspicion about Edward’s assistant after the impact of my brief interaction with the stranger. “You getting a plate?”
“Yeah, I’ll grab one.” He turns, stopping and saying a little too loudly, “Cross, didn’t notice you there.”
I spin around, my wide stare pinging between my husband and the man he’s complained about so much.
“You’re Cross?” I blurt. “The geek?”
Horror creeps into the vat of silence following my words as I realize just how badly I’ve stepped in it.
“I mean…” I tighten my fingers around the edge of my plate and gulp. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“No need to apologize,” Cross says, addressing my comment but never looking away from Edward. “I see my reputation has preceded me.”
The two men stare at one another, hostility crackling in the air, though both their faces remain impassive. They couldn’t be more different. My husband with his winter pallor, skin pale and lightly freckled. His wavy dark blond hair cut close and parted on the side. Edward has always been a charismatic charmer who draws people effortlessly. Cross, a few inches taller, broader, somehow projects a guardedness that makes him seem unapproachable, only that wasn’t how I felt a few moments ago, before he knew who I was. Whom I was married to. A muscle twitches in the unyielding line of his jaw, and his eyes crinkle at the corners with an approximation of indolent amusement that doesn’t match the flatness of his stare.