Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 75107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
The heat inside wasn’t the kind that slapped you in the face. The old warehouse was too drafty and poorly insulated to hold onto it enough to actually warm the whole space up. But there was a marked difference from the chill of the day as I moved inside.
Most of the employees had shifted around their workstations to be nearer to the heaters. The phone bank and the wrapping station were cozy enough for everyone sitting there to be stripped of their jackets, hats, scarves, and gloves.
And I dunno. That shit felt good, I guess.
Doing good.
Even in a small way.
“Venezio,” one of the volunteers said, slapping me hard on the back of the shoulder.
Craig was a schmuck.
He thought everyone loved him and pretended to be the center of attention. I knew a former jock who peaked in high school when I met one.
That wasn’t what pissed me off about him, though, if I were being completely honest.
Nope.
That was the way he was always staring at Stephanie. How he was constantly finding reasons to get close to her, to touch her, to get her attention.
For fuck’s sake, I’d once seen him smell her hair.
And, worse yet, graze his hand over the side of her tit and then try to pretend it was a mistake and he was so embarrassed.
Stephanie didn’t entertain it. She didn’t shut him down either. I figured that was only because she was afraid of losing what little help she already had. And Craig, while an asshole, did do a decent amount of work around the place.
“Craig.” His name was practically a curse on my lips.
“Did you see? Our girl brought cookies.”
“Our girl?” I asked, my gaze cutting to his.
“Stephanie. She baked cookies for us.” I had nothing to say to that. “They’re good too. I love a woman who can bake.”
“Good for you.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you don’t like a woman who can cook.”
“I don’t give a fuck either way.”
“Bullshit.”
Did this asshole think we were friends?
I gave him a shrug, figuring that was universal for ‘I don’t want to have this conversation, so fuck off.’
Not to Craig.
“Every man wants a woman to cook and clean for him.”
“Who’s every man?” I shot back.
“Oh, come on. No man wants to wash their own clothes.”
“Been doing my own laundry since I was tall enough to reach. It ain’t hard.”
“It’s not man’s work.”
“And being your servant ain’t a woman’s work,” I said, finally walking away from him because my palms were itching to curl up, and it had been way too long since my fist had that satisfying crack of bones on bones.
“Fucking dick,” I was mumbling under my breath, not realizing Stephanie was coming in from the back room.
“Who is?” she asked, tone light, pleasant.
“Craig.”
A surprised snorting laugh escaped her at that.
“What’d he do?” she asked, voice conspiratorial.
“Set modern relationships back seventy years.”
“Huh,” she said, glancing past me. “Yeah, actually, I can see that. Did you have a cookie? I made them.”
“Heard that. No.”
Her brows pinched at that. “Do you… want one?”
I didn’t.
But from her?
A cookie, a subpoena, a crowbar to the ribs? Whatever she was offering, I was taking it.
“Sure.”
“I made them,” she told me, grabbing a tiny napkin with a pine tree pattern on it, then placing a cookie on it before handing it to me. “My mom’s recipe,” she added as I looked down at the gooey-looking cookie. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Is it cooked?”
“Of course it’s cooked.”
“It looks soft.”
“Yeah, they’re soft-baked.”
“I’ve had soft-baked. These ain’t them.”
“I mean, store-bought is a different kind of soft-baked, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s what I mean,” I said, pulling the cookie up for a sniff. Sugar, chocolate, but still different than any cookies I’d ever had before.
“Have you, have you never had a home-baked cookie before?” she asked, eyes going doe-round.
“Can’t say I have.”
Her hand went to her heart, and I swear those dark eyes of hers looked a little watery. She wasn’t going to fucking… cry about it, was she? About cookies?
“Now I wish it was warm,” she said as I finally lifted the damn cookie and took a bite.
The chocolate went molten, the butter sweet and soft, and for a second, I swear I forgot every bad fucking thing I’d been through in my life. If comfort had a taste, it was this.
“Christ,” I mumbled, shoving the rest of the cookie in my mouth.
“Have another,” she said, grabbing three more and placing them on the napkin. “Now I wish I’d made my oatmeal too. And Snickerdoodles. And sugar!”
“You use raisins?”
“Not usually. Though they can be good sometimes.”
“No, they can’t,” I said, getting a twinkling little laugh out of her.
“Hey, Venezio,” she started, reaching up to run a hand through her hair. My damn fingers itched to do the same thing. “Can I ask you a big—”