Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Shocked, I stared at her, unable to quite take that in. When she finally turned to face me, and I saw something vulnerable in her eyes. “I didn’t want them to know that I was just a scholarship student who’d never had anything fancier than Olive Garden. So I used all these pretentious words I’d heard the other students use. I tore you down to make myself sound sophisticated.”
Her dark eyes were trouble when she stared up at me. “I didn’t think about the fellow student in the kitchen who had worked so hard to make that meal. I just didn’t want the others to think I was a simpleton, easily impressed. But I was impressed, and I’m really sorry I wrote those things on the review. You didn’t deserve it.” She blinked, moisture lining her dark lashes. “I’m sorry.”
Her gaze lowered after that, which gave me a little time to process. There was still a layer of anger there. Her review had cut me deeply. But more importantly, there was relief. This woman had started out as a massive pain in my ass. And now she was important to me. But throughout both ends of that spectrum, her words, her opinion of my food had colored every encounter we’d had.
Now I knew the truth—but she didn’t.
“I lied to you, too,” I said softly.
That got her attention. “When? I’d never even met you before—”
“Not back then. Here. I told you that I only made those cooking videos to earn money for school. That was where it ended up, but it wasn’t where it started.” I paused, trying to figure out how to explain. “When I arrived at Langley, I felt the way you did, that I was nothing like the other students in my program. They were used to the fanciest food imaginable, and whenever I’d try to make something good but straightforward, like a hearty soup or gumbo, they’d look down at me. So I started making videos that showed that simple food could still be delicious. I wanted to help people learn to cook better. But then I started getting lots of comments on the videos, especially from women. After Kai suggested I try the shirtless thing, those messages and comments increased a hundredfold. Or a thousand.
“The truth is that part of me liked it at first. It was flattering. I’d been a small, scrawny kid growing up. Didn’t even date until the end of high school when I suddenly shot up six inches and started working out. So all those women commenting on my body… it was an ego boost. It felt good to be desired and admired after being invisible for so long. I’m not proud of reacting that way, but it’s the truth. You were right to call me out for it.”
About a half dozen emotions crossed her face, none sticking around long enough for me to identify them. “Right and wrong. Because that’s not how you feel now,” she said softly.
More importantly, she said it kindly. I captured her hand in mine and squeezed it gently. “No, it’s not. And now that I want to build my reputation as a serious chef, I wish I could distance myself from that channel. But I can’t. It pays my tuition and my bills, and I need that for one more semester. Plus, I signed a contract, and there’s no way to get out of it early.”
Her head dipped forward, nearly resting on my shoulder. “I thought you got off on all the things they said about you.”
“I did, for a while.” It wasn’t something I was proud of, but I had to be honest. And it was time to be honest about something else. “But right now, there’s only one woman I hope likes the way I look.” It was the truth. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the night of her first time. We’d fit together so well. She’d come so beautifully for me. But there’s been a moment when she was straddling me, riding my cock like a wild woman, when something had changed—for both of us. I just didn’t know what.
“You know you look really fucking good, Asher.”
She said it like it was an annoyance—but maybe something more. It seemed like she’d lingered on the word fucking… which she usually didn’t normally use. And her gaze kept sweeping over me. But then she blinked and looked away, her tone becoming business like. “Before this… we were both doing what we thought we had to do to survive at school, and to protect ourselves. But I will always regret saying such awful things in that review.”
“I’m sorry too,” I said. “For being such a dick to you when you got here. For holding onto that grudge for years. For…” I gestured vaguely. “For everything.”