Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Blinking frantically out of my haze as she shuffles into the kitchen on her crutches with a towel wrapped around her hair, I crack the door of the oven to take a look at the garlic bread and shut off the burner to the pasta.
“You’re cooking dinner?” She freezes when she sees the spread on the stove, and her eyes come to mine. “I thought we were going to order pizza again?”
“Just call me Betty Crocker, babe.” I sheathe my hands with the oven mitts on the counter and waggle my eyebrows with a grin before pulling the bread from the oven and setting it on the waiting hot pads on the corner.
Katy laughs, and the line of her quirky, cute smile makes my chest throb. God, how have I managed to pretend my crush on her wasn’t this big for so long? The truth is, I think I’ve always had a little thing for the teacher next door.
“Wow. Thank you,” she remarks, her voice a soft caress. “I can’t deny that my stomach is happy to see a home-cooked meal after doing takeout the last few nights.”
“I hope you like spaghetti.”
“Are you kidding? I love it. I would marry it if a union with food were legal.”
“Is a union with food illegal? Or is it just the kind of thing no one’s actually tried?”
“One-way ticket to federal prison, I think.”
I laugh. “Most likely.”
Quickly and efficiently, I drop the pasta into the colander to drain it and then mix it back in the saucepan to bring it together. It smells of tomatoes and basil and oregano, and my stomach growls audibly in response.
“I’ll get the plates, silverware, and hot sauce,” Katy offers, pulling the towel off her head and folding it precisely on the counter. She runs her fingers through her long, still-damp locks a few times, and I silently wonder how one woman can be so naturally gorgeous.
I almost tell her to sit down and let me handle all the stuff she’s doing, but since she’s become a bit of an expert at navigating on her crutches, I let her have her needed independence.
“Hot sauce?” I question, scrunching up my eyebrows. “On spaghetti?”
“You don’t put hot sauce on your spaghetti?”
“Uh, no.” A soft chuckle vibrates through my chest. “I’m afraid not.”
“Man, you’re seriously missing out. Hot sauce goes on everything, and it does it beautifully,” she insists, hugging the red-orange bottle to her chest. “I’m honestly sad that it’s taken me until today to notice the bottle of Frank’s in the pantry. You can bet your butt I would’ve been using it all week.”
“You put hot sauce on everything?” I question. “Surely you’re exaggerating.”
“Everything,” she emphasizes. “Spaghetti, pizza, steak, French fries—you name it, and I’ll put it on it. But hey, it’s okay if you have a less-sophisticated palate. I won’t judge.”
“Is that your way of calling me a food Neanderthal?”
“Definitely not,” she disagrees. “If I were going to make a caveman-style reference to your personality, you’d know it in no uncertain terms.”
“Good to hear.”
She grabs the plates from the cabinet and a couple of forks from the drawer and takes them over to the small kitchen table to set our spots before placing the bottle of Frank’s Hot Sauce right in the center, like it’s a floral centerpiece or something.
“I think we’re just about ready to eat,” I announce as I put the spaghetti into a dish and the garlic bread into a basket.
I follow in her footsteps toward the table, and when I get to my spot, she smiles up at me from her seat. A brilliant, megawatt kind of smile that makes my heart do weird, flip-floppy things inside my chest.
“This smells delicious,” she says as I scoop a helping of spaghetti onto her plate. “Thanks again for doing this, Mack.”
“It was my pleasure, Katy Cat.”
“Ugh.” She groans, but then, a soft, almost-whisperlike giggle escapes her throat. “When are you going to stop with that awful nickname?”
“I wish I could say soon, but…” I waggle my brows. “It’s more like never.”
“Well…I guess that only leaves me with one choice,” she answers, and I quirk a questioning brow in her direction.
“And what’s that?”
“Kick you out of this condo for good.”
I laugh. “Good luck trying with that bum foot.”
“I could use the left one.”
“But then what would you stand on?”
“Fine. I guess I’ll have to utilize Plan B, then.”
“I hope Plan B doesn’t involve torture.”
“Just the metaphorical kind. I’m going to come up with an equally awful nickname for you.” She winks at me. “Tit for tat, you know?”
“I give you free rein to do your worst, Katy Cat,” I answer playfully and sit down in the chair across from hers.
“Okay,” she responds, and a mischievous grin crests the corners of her mouth as she picks up her fork from the table. “Shall we dig in, Mack-N-Cheese?”