Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Holy fuck, sweetheart. This is real good. What did you do differently?”
Mary Kate giggles while nibbling her own sandwich.
“Well, I’m using the expensive serrano ham I found in the fridge, and I buttered both sides of the bread before putting it in the panini maker. That makes a lot of difference. I hope it doesn’t ruin your diet.”
I mock-frown.
“I generally don’t consume a lot of butter, but for you, sweetheart, I’m up for anything. Besides, this sandwich is too good to pass up. I may need two.”
She giggles again, and we settle into a comfortable silence as we eat. She takes another bite of her sandwich, then props her chin on her hand and shoots me a playful glance. “Can I ask you something, Kent?”
I nod.
“Shoot,” I say, like it’s nothing.
She traces the lip of her mug. “Why urology?”
The question catches me sideways. I shrug. “Why does anyone do anything? I was in med school, watching the world trip over itself to solve breast cancer. Every year, new campaigns, millions in research, a whole fucking month painted pink. Meanwhile, if a man had his balls cut off by cancer, nobody gave a shit. They called it karma. So I went into urology out of spite. I wanted to make sure men didn’t get left behind.”
She grins. “You did it for the boys.”
I shrug, but the words hang there, truer than I want to admit. “Not just for the boys. I like fixing things. It’s mechanical. Cause and effect. There’s a problem, and I solve it. No drama.”
She props her chin on her palm, the sleeve of her shirt slipping up to expose her bare forearm, the downy hair catching the light. “But you like drama. You just want to be the one who controls it.”
I laugh. “Guilty.”
She takes another bite of sandwich, chews slowly. “You ever wish you’d done something else?”
I think about it, shake my head. “No. I like what I do. I like being needed.”
She laughs. “That’s weirdly noble.”
I shrug. “It’s also lucrative. You’d be amazed how much rich dudes care about their dicks.”
She’s silent for a moment, then: “I bet you’re a really good physician.”
For some reason, this hits me harder than any of the sex, any of the filthy things I’ve done to her. I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t. I just pour her another cup of joe, careful not to spill, and slide it toward her.
She sips, then looks at me cheekily over the rim of her mug. “You know, for a guy who spends all day around old men’s junk, you’re pretty hot.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks. I think.”
The beautiful blonde smiles, a real one, and for the first time since I’ve sat down, she looks relaxed. Her legs uncurl, and she leans back, stretching a bit. I decide to use the opportunity to turn the tables.
“So what about you, sweetheart?” I say. “Aren’t you working part time at a plant store? What’s that about?”
Mary Kate smiles sweetly. “It’s peaceful. I like being around things that grow, and that don’t talk back. Plus, they let me bring home stuff that’s half-dead, so I get to revive it. Kind of like you when it comes to saving living organisms, but with less testosterone.”
“That’s very noble as well,” I growl. “But is that what you want to do, long-term? Work in a plant store or maybe run a greenhouse?”
She glances up, like she can hear me thinking. “No, the plant shop isn’t my dream. It’s just something to do. A way to make money that doesn’t make me hate myself like most jobs. Ugh, I would not be able to handle a job at a customer service call center.”
I chuckle.
“Well, I think you’re a long ways from that because most companies have outsourced that shit to the Philippines or India. So tell me, what is your dream, sweetheart?” I ask. “I want to know.”
Mary Kate pauses and bites her lip, almost shy. “Italy. I want to stand in the middle of a piazza, order a coffee in Italian, and not have the barista switch to English out of pity. I want to go to museums, not as a tourist, but as someone who belongs there. I want to be fluent. I want to feel at home somewhere.”
I let the silence linger. “Why not go?”
She shrugs. “Money. Timing. Fear of being kidnapped by the mafia and sold to a billionaire as his private sex slave.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think you’d like that.”
She giggles, then blushes. “Maybe. If the billionaire was hot.”
I don’t laugh. Instead, I say, “Maybe I’ll take you to Italy someday, Mary Kate.”
Her face goes blank. Then, slowly, color rises from her throat, up to her ears. “Would you?”
“If you want,” I say, casual as I can. “You’d have to earn it.”