Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I smile as he comes inside my space.
I have a high-vaulted ceiling because my apartment is a loft. Yet, the moment the big man steps through the door, he makes my living room look entirely too small, dwarfing everything around him as he stands on the edge of the carpet.
From the living area, the apartment flows into an eat-in kitchen with an L-shaped layout. The floorplan is completely open, which is why I picked it.
He ignores the small set of stairs that lead up to my sleeping area above and focuses all his attention on the space in front of him. It’s as if he’s on a mission.
Immediately, he goes into the kitchen area as if he wants to get this over with.
“Trevor, I know you’re here under duress, but it doesn’t have to be like you’re eating your last meal.”
He laughs, and I swear it’s like angels in heaven playing the harps to my ears.
“Pixie, I’m a man. I’m a big man. I like to eat. You said you wanted to do dinner. I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
“Oh yeah, I suppose you would want to eat,” I reply, feeling stupid. Of course he wants to eat. He’s here to eat his meal and move on in his life. “Take a seat, and I’ll get our salads out.”
He does as instructed while I roll a lemon on the counter top, then cut it to squeeze the juice over the leafy greens.
I set a plate in front of him then take my seat while the lasagna sits on the stove, ready to be served.
“Got ranch, Pixie?” he asks without tasting even a single bite.
I frown.
He studies me. “Look, Pixie, you invited me here. I was good. We are good. You want me to eat, well, I don’t count calories. I like ranch, Italian, French—something, anything to smother these veggies and choke them down.”
I gasp. “I don’t count calories, Trevor.”
He blinks at my continued use of his name, but again, he doesn’t correct me.
“I don’t have any of those dressings. I grew every bit of this in my garden and hand-picked the lemons to ‘dress’ the greens. You see, the natural citric acid enhances the flavors of your blends in a way that compliments it. As long as the preparer doesn’t pick too many bitters and not enough sweets, your salad should have a perfect balance to the blend, allowing for a flavor explosion in your mouth.”
He looks at me like I’m an alien. Maybe I am. Whatever the case, I take seriously anything and everything I put in my mouth.
Just when I think he will ask to skip the salad, he sticks his fork in it and begins to eat. He doesn’t complain, he doesn’t compliment, but he eats every bite.
Drinking his water, he looks at the glass then looks at me.
“Infused with limes. It’s a good balance to the lemon spritz on the salad. We’ll have berry infused with dinner.”
After finishing my salad, I go to the kitchen and plate his lasagna and my own. Then I change out our glasses to a new set, something I normally wouldn’t do. A little extra water to wash them won’t hurt too badly. In the end, it’s all about cleaning the slate between us.
“I got the clean glasses so your pallet will be ready for the sweet burst of the strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry infusion.”
He studies the lasagna while taking a drink of the water.
“No sugar, nothing added. It’s infused using a sun tea pitcher and fresh fruits. Occasionally, I will puree the fruits and make ice cubes out of that to then let melt into my water. Both ways are delicious.”
Sitting down, I begin to cut into my lasagna while Coal sits across from me like he’s looking for something.
“Bread?” he asks.
“Oops.” I smile. I really am messing this up. I don’t have company often. When I do, it’s Des and Morgan who know about my lifestyle. “I, um … Well, I don’t actually eat processed foods such as bread.”
He leans back in his chair like I just whipped him. Then he looks at the lasagna like it’s committed a crime against him.
“Pasta is processed,” he tries to rationalize.
“I made it from scratch with my own oats.” I point to my small mill on the counter. “Grinding the oats myself, it makes things a little coarser than processed foods, but we are ingesting no preservatives or artificial ingredients.”
“You butcher the cow yourself, too?” he asks in all seriousness, making me laugh.
“I don’t eat meat.”
“What!”
“Well, Trevor, I was able to make the red sauce with stewed and canned tomatoes I grew myself. Even Des came over and learned to can by helping me.”
“Where’s the meat in the lasagna?”
“There isn’t any. I used tomatoes, zucchini, carrots, and peppers. They all give the consistency of meat.”