Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I almost start liking him. Almost.
Then his next words throw me. “After all, she turned down a job in Los Angeles at an up-and-coming fashion brand for you.”
“She did what?” I ask, shocked by the revelation.
Elias shrugs. “I mean… the pay was shitty and it would require a move, but yeah… it was a great opportunity to get back into fashion, and I know she turned it down because she didn’t want to abandon whatever this is that’s starting. It means she’s committed, and you better be too.”
“I am,” I say, eyes locking onto his. It’s one of the truest admissions I’ve ever made.
“I’m rooting for you,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, his voice hardens just a touch. “But hear me clearly on this, Grizz.” I nod, indicating for him to continue. “Do not hurt her.”
The words aren’t a threat. They’re a line drawn in absolute certainty.
I look him square in his eyes. “I won’t.”
Chapter 24
Daisy
Since my first visit to Grizz’s apartment building, it’s always felt sterile to me. Everything about it was practical. But today, the second I walk in, it feels homey.
The air is thick with the smell of fresh butter. Garlic. A slow-roasted warmth that makes my stomach clench with hunger and surprise.
“Holy—” I start, then stop because I don’t want to sound like I’ve never encountered a man doing something domestically competent.
Grizz’s mouth quirks. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. He steps back to let me in, big body filling the doorway, and for a beat I just stand there in the threshold letting the smell wrap around me like a cozy blanket.
This is not the scent of takeout containers, which is what I’m used to when we eat at his place.
“Come in,” he says. His voice was built for arenas and back hallways and telling people to stop talking shit. It was built for whispering dirty things to me. “Come, come. Before you freeze in the hallway.”
I blink, realizing I’m still holding my coat close, indicating I’m about to flee, and step inside.
The apartment is warm in deference to the late fall chill, but it’s not just the heat blasting from a vent. It’s warmth that comes from the setting. The lights are dimmer than the overhead blaze in my place. There’s a faint lull of music in the background, soft enough to be nearly nonexistent. Coupled with the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, the whole space feels lived in and a place where I want to spend time.
Grizz takes my coat and hangs it on the hook by the entry. It’s a gallant move, should be inconsequential, really, but it feels like a nod to the change in our relationship status. My scarf comes off next. My boots thud softly against the floor as I toe them off.
A domestic montage I did not see coming when I first met him. I know for sure Grizz never saw it coming either.
I watch as he moves into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “You hungry?”
“Yes,” I answer as I follow him, then add, because I’m me, “But also mildly concerned you might poison me.”
He lets out a low laugh that’s half scoff, half pleased. “Don’t you worry, I read every step of the recipe very carefully.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling at this new playful banter that’s starting to become normal between us.
I pause for half a second in the entryway of the kitchen and just… take stock, because Grizz is wearing an apron. Dark fabric, tied around his waist, the strings knotted in a way that suggests he did it once and decided that was the correct method for all eternity. His sleeves are pushed up to his strong, bulging forearms, and he’s standing at the stove like he’s been doing this his whole life.
He’s holding a colander over the sink, straining pasta with quick, efficient movements, water steaming up around him. The air is rich with the scent of sautéed vegetables—mushrooms, peppers, onions—sweet and savory and glossy with oil.
He turns back to the stove, a man in the middle of a mission, wooden spoon in hand, stirring with a focus I usually only see on the ice.
“What is happening?” I ask, because my brain can’t find any other words.
He glances over his shoulder, and that grin hits—small but real. “Dinner.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer, eager to verify this isn’t an illusion. “I understand the concept of dinner. I mean you. In an apron. Making said dinner.”
He hums, mildly amused. “You look like you’re about to call the police.”
“I might,” I mutter, leaning in to inhale again, because the aroma is insane. “It is absolutely incredible.”
He does this thing where his shoulders shift like he’s uncomfortable with praise. Like a compliment is a puck he doesn’t know where to put. “Roasted chicken’s in the oven,” he says, changing the subject. “Just needs a couple minutes.”