Total pages in book: 225
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
Instead of asking him about getting gifts he wants like I’d normally do, I ask, “You like your pizza like this?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?” he sits. “Usually a pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom guy.”
“And if you don’t?”
Adam bitched about my hot peppers because even though they were only on half, sometimes the juice went over the border to his half and ruined his life.
“Then next pizza we get will be half what I like and half what you like, I guess. I don’t know. Not a big deal, is it?” He shrugs and pulls a piece out of the box and sets it on my plate before taking one for himself.
“You went pretty far back on my socials, didn’t you?”
“Gave myself something to do at night when I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about you.”
I know he has to have gone back not only because of the accuracy of the toppings, because I don’t remember posting anything recently about pizza, but also because I do remember a rant post with a picture of a slice of pizza posted a few years ago. This pizza doesn’t have the crust air bubbles popped and he handed me a piece with a giant bubble on the edge. That pizza slice post went semi-viral a few years ago when I posted something about loving the air bubbles and not wanting them popped with a picture of a piece of pizza with a big one.
But I do like sausage on my pizza, too, and there’s none on this one. So he forwent something he likes on his pizza to try it my way.
I immediately peel the bubbled crust off and pop it in my mouth.
“This is good. Peppers add a nice bite to it,” he remarks.
“I like sausage on my pizza, too,” I tell him. And I don’t know why I tell him. My face goes hot when I realize this.
He smiles. “Next time we’ll get what you want and what I want then. The vegetables work for me.” He shrugs, flips his Jack Reacher book open and starts reading.
I open my book, too, but there’s no way I can concentrate on reading a love story about a bulldozing alpha male right now. Not only because of my state of mind, but also because I can’t keep my eyes off him.
He’s not paying lip service; he’s reading while eating his pizza. I don’t bother to pour a glass of wine. Instead I look in the fridge for a bottle of water but am pleasantly surprised to find a bottle of root beer. And to find the fridge is now fully stocked with food.
“Oh yeah, I got that for you. And some ice cream among other stuff,” he says, glancing at the root beer in my hand.
And I’m frozen in place. The effort here is impressive. I’m a root beer float lover.
He wipes his fingers on his napkin, flips a page and then grabs another slice of pizza from the box.
I manage to put away two slices with a big glass of root beer before I’m done. He’s eaten three slices and is still reading.
I haven’t been reading. I’ve been eating and also kind of watching him.
My phone chimes. I lift it from beside myself.
Alannah: Checking in.
Me: I’m fine.
Alannah: You sure? Send me proof of life.
I take a selfie and forward it to her.
Alannah: Gorgeous. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I’m thinking maybe all this happened for a reason.
I frown and wait for her continuation for a minute.
Alannah: Don’t get me wrong, he’s whackadoodle, but maybe you could wind up with a happy ending anyway. Msg me in the morning with proof of life again. Love you babe.
For a reason. The reason being what? What possible reason could the universe have for putting me on the radar of a psycho stalker?
I scoff to myself. And I’m also scoffing at the gorgeous remark because I’ve put no effort into my appearance today other than running a brush through my hair this morning when we had the world’s strangest breakfast, ever.
I put my plate and glass in the dishwasher and walk down the hall with my phone and the book in my hand. Not that I think I can get into it tonight.
A few minutes later, Derek joins me in his bed with his book, bringing in two bottles of water, setting one on the table on the side I’m on, turning on the lamp, then setting the other bottle on the opposite table.
He flicks the ceiling light off and gets in bed, then says, “I’ve seen him wheel into bed with his own water a few times. Saw you walk in with two bottles each time you went to bed first, setting him up on his side of the bed. Why the fuck he didn’t think about anyone besides himself when you were putting effort in is beyond me.”