Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
It was complete chaos.
It was going to take him hours to undo the damage.
It was going to be delightful to listen to him grumble and rant to himself as I lounged on the sofa trying not to laugh.
Close to the end of the workday, I took a long, hot shower in the primary bedroom, steaming up the whole space and the bedroom before I changed into my ugliest outfit: oversized men’s sweatpants and a giant pink tie-dye hoodie.
Then I made myself some of his expensive coffee, turned on some absurd reality TV show, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
I was half-dozing when I heard the security system bleep.
Then there he was.
Looking really rundown. Face drawn, bags under his eyes, shoulders slumped.
I’d never seen him without the cool, calm, confident, charming mask.
It was startlingly human.
And I immediately started to feel bad about screwing with his sanctuary.
Something caught his eye.
Maybe one of my shoes?
It was hard to tell.
But then his brows pinched.
Until finally, his head lifted.
And found me.
“Layna?”
Thank God he didn’t breathe my name out like he normally did. My body seemed incapable of handling that. But a simple question? That, I could do.
“You’re home late,” I said, reaching for some of the popcorn I’d made earlier and making sure to trail a piece or two on the floor on the trip from bowl to mouth.
I almost smiled when his gaze tracked their fall.
Maybe this would be even easier than I imagined.
“It was a long day,” he agreed, taking a step forward and immediately tripping over one of my shoes. “You’re… here.”
“Well, it is our marital home, isn’t it?” I asked.
His lips quirked at the term.
“Indeed it is,” he agreed. “I’m glad you came,” he said. And I got to watch as his gaze took in the blankets, sweaters, books, and miscellaneous junk all around. “How long have you been here?”
“A couple of hours,” I said, dropping more popcorn.
He nodded, still trying to take everything in.
“Have you eaten?”
“Popcorn.”
“So no,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket.
“Are you going to cook?”
I was more excited about that prospect than I should have been.
And, damn him, he read me easily enough that he noticed.
“Do you have any requests?”
“Nope. I’m just curious if you can top the last meal.” And how frustrated you’re going to get while trying to find ingredients in that pantry.
“Challenge accepted,” he said, rolling up those damn sleeves again.
One day, I needed to survey my aunts and cousins and ask if they, too, got feral when a man rolled up his sleeves, or if it was just a me thing.
“I’ve seen you eat pasta and fish and about five gallons of coffee. But do you have any dietary restrictions or allergies?”
“No. But I hate blue cheese. With a passion.”
“Noted,” he said, going to the fridge.
I hadn’t done too much fussing there, so things were mostly as he left them.
I tried to ignore him and watch my silly show. But curiosity had me unfolding off the couch and making my way into the kitchen.
“Red goes with dinner,” he said, gesturing toward the rack. “Want to pick one out?”
The last thing I needed around him was alcohol. But one glass of wine with dinner wasn’t going to make me fall into bed with him again.
So I picked a wine.
And nearly snort-laughed when he went into the pantry and mumbled a quiet “What the hell?”
I poured myself a glass of wine.
“I may have… moved some things around,” I admitted, taking a sip to hide my smile.
“I see,” he said, his voice just a tad tighter than I’d heard it before.
But he made no other comment as he hunted around for the ingredients he needed.
I wondered if I would wake up in the middle of the night to see him awake and putting things back to rights because he couldn’t sleep knowing what a mess things were.
“What are you making?” I asked when he seemed more comfortable with the silence than I was.
“Braciole.”
“I don’t know what that is,” I admitted.
“It’s an Italian-style roulade.” At my raised brows, he gave me a little smile. “A rolled and stuffed meat. This is pork flank with prosciutto, panko, parmesan, and pecorino with a garlicky tomato sauce. And a side of pasta,” he said, waving to the box of orzo. “Since you’re such a fan of carbs.”
“You can never go wrong with carbs.”
“Do you want to help?” he asked.
“I think I’d rather watch,” I said.
“Would you mind grabbing some fresh basil?”
“Like in one of those clamshells?” I asked, going toward the fridge.
“Like on the front balcony,” he said, nodding toward the door.
“You grow herbs?”
“A few.”
“How much basil do you want?” I asked, kind of excited to check out the front balcony. It was one of the few places I hadn’t checked out yet.
“Enough to cover your palm.”
“Okay. But if the plant dies, it’s not my fault. My cousin claims I can make her garden wilt just by looking at it.”