Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I learned to love cooking from Greer.
The pan clatters from my hand onto the stove after I shock myself that she popped into my mind like that.
And not just a mere thought popping into my mind, but a memory of how much we loved to cook together. Sure, there were times we’d pull out strawberries and whipped cream and that alone would be our meal—and it usually ended up with us naked in the kitchen. But mostly it was about using the time to keep our hands busy while we talked about everything from the mundane things that happened during our day to deep philosophical debates. Our duties with the CIA made quality time hard. We didn’t do joint missions, but in between them—which would often be weeks at a time—we spent every moment together.
Cooking became our thing. We’d only been together three months—starting with that amazing night in Colombia—when the nature of our relationship changed from just great sex, affection, and fun cooking into something else altogether.
“Here, slice these olives,” Greer had told me, handing me a bowl of kalamatas. We were on vacation in Santorini, both of us having finished exhausting missions. She’d been in Guatemala, and I’d been in the Czech Republic. Neither was particularly dangerous—just some routine human intel, which was the general gist of what we did for the CIA—but we’d been apart for almost a month. We had three glorious weeks off together, and we chose Greece as our playground.
“What?” I exclaimed with mock offense. “No way. That’s sissy work.”
“How can it be sissy work when you get to use a sharp knife?” she asked as she smashed garlic cloves.
I nabbed the tiny paring knife she’d laid beside the bowl. “This is not a manly weapon.”
“I half expect you to pull a huge blade from behind your back à la Crocodile Dundee and say, ‘Now this is a knife.’” She said it with a convincing Aussie accent and everything. But in the end, she nodded at the olives. “Get to work.”
She started a pot of water for the orzo and chattered about silly things, and I listened attentively while I sliced olives.
It was when she was telling me a story about how she was on a Girl Scout camping trip when she was eleven and in a game of truth or dare one night, she ate some wild mushrooms. Luckily, they were the non-psychedelic kind. Unluckily, while not poisonous, they caused immense “gastric distress,” as she put it, and became the most unpopular girl on that trip.
I chuckled as I continued my task, eyes never wavering from my knife because while it was very small, it had a mightily sharp edge, and I didn’t want to lose the tip of my finger.
When I noticed Greer had gone silent, I paused my slicing and turned my attention to her. As always happened when I looked at her, a rush of attraction blew through me. Her beauty was almost criminal, but mostly I had such a deep, unyielding care for her, it scared me sometimes. I’d never had feelings like this for anyone in my life.
When our eyes met, she stared at me with an intensity I’d not seen before.
“What?” I asked, placing the knife on the butcher block.
“I just told you a really embarrassing, gross story about myself, and you just chuckled and never missed a beat cutting those olives.”
I frowned, not catching her drift. “So?”
“I’ve never told anyone that story. Not even my parents.”
“And?” I drawled.
“You didn’t even grimace. Or say that it was nasty.”
I turned fully toward her, leaning against the counter. “Not sure I understand where you’re going with this.”
“You love me,” she said, as if it was a revelation.
And while I’d never given her those words, the minute she said them, I knew no truer words had ever been spoken.
“Yeah… I do.”
It was monumental what was happening at that moment. They were big words, but I’m not sure they were ever really needed. Greer and I said things to each other all the time that were far more important.
You get me like no one else does.
You fulfill me.
My life is infinitely brighter with you in it.
I’ve never been happier.
I can’t wait to wake up beside you in the morning.
Over and over again, we had a million endearments. “I love you” seemed almost paltry next to the acknowledgment we gave our feelings for each other on a daily basis.
So maybe that’s why I felt the need to let her know how I felt. “Will you marry me?”
Just like that. Four simple words, no ring, my hands smelling like kalamata olives.
We’d known each other three months, but they’d been the happiest of my life. They had clearly been hers, too, because she threw herself in my arms and kissed me hard before accepting my proposal.