Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
My lips quirk. Funny. I’ve been thinking about my childhood all afternoon. And now…beef stew.
“I love beef stew.”
“Good. Though I’m sure Marilyn could prepare you a gourmet version that totally puts mine to shame.”
“Marilyn has never made beef stew.”
Because I’ve never asked her for it. Beef stew was a staple during my childhood, too—but only when we could get beef, and it was usually ground. Still, my mother could make a delicious meal out of a package of hamburger.
Skye meets my gaze, her lips parted in that sexy way. “So much for small talk. Why are you here, Braden?”
“To join you for dinner.”
“We just saw each other at lunch.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll go if you’d rather I not be here.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I say nothing. I’ll go if she asks me to, but I’m betting she won’t. I’m hoping she won’t.
“Stay,” she says.
“All right.”
“I just meant…you said you didn’t want a relationship, but here you are.”
“And…?”
“And…we’ve seen a lot of each other in a short time. Doesn’t that make us…something?”
I rub my jawline. “It makes you my girlfriend, Skye. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Girlfriend?” Then she shakes her head. “You saw the comment on my Instagram post.”
“I did. I’ll ask again. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I don’t know what I want, honestly. I only know I want more than a purely sexual arrangement.”
“Which is why I’ve agreed to date you.”
“Then let’s date.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”
She looks down at her feet. “No. I don’t normally date in bare feet and sweats. Why are you really here, Braden? Because I’m absolutely sure it’s not to eat my leftover beef stew.”
“Do you even have to ask?”
She gulps. “Yeah. I have to ask.”
“I’m here to fuck you, Skye.”
Her knees wobble. Only slightly, but I notice.
“Then I definitely need to eat.”
I smile. Almost. “So do I.”
She motions to the small table. “Have a seat. Dinner will be ready in a minute. Can I get you a drink?”
I remove my suit coat, hang it on the back of a chair, and sit. “Wild Turkey.”
She smiles. “I always have that.” She pulls the bottle out of a top cupboard, grabs a lowball glass, and pours me a double. Then she adds one ice cube and hands me the glass.
I take a sip. “Going to join me?”
“Not tonight, no.” She dishes up the stew, slices a baguette, and sets it on a plate. She pours two glasses of water and brings everything to the table.
“Dig in,” she says.
I nod, spoon up some stew, blow on it, and taste it.
She watches me intently, clearly waiting for my approval. It’s fragrant and meaty with a spike of thyme. The meat isn’t ground beef, though. It’s round steak or chuck, cut into chunks. They’re braised to perfection and melt in my mouth.
Funny. This is a hundred times better than my mother’s stew, yet I find myself missing hers. At the same time, I’m delighted that Skye is a good cook.
“Delicious,” I say.
She lets out a breath, nods, and takes a bite herself. “Bread?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I take a hunk. “Do you have any butter?”
“Oh, yeah.” She rises and finds a stick in the fridge, unwraps it, and places it on the butter dish. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
A few minutes pass. Then—
“You’re a good cook, Skye.”
“Thanks.”
“This is the best stew I’ve had in a long time.” No lie there.
“I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure you were a stew kind of guy.”
“Are you kidding? My mother made stew all the time while I was growing up.”
“Right. It’s easy to forget sometimes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… You grew up like I did. You didn’t always have billions.”
“You’re saying stew is a poor man’s meal?” It was the way my mother prepared it. It was also a delicious treat.
“I don’t know what I’m saying. Forget I said anything.”
“I still enjoy the simple things,” I say. “A walk in the rain, watching the sun rise, a warm bowl of stew, and a slice of crusty bread. Money doesn’t change who a person is.”
“I didn’t mean that it did.”
“Okay. No big deal.”
“If you like stew so much, Braden, why don’t you have Marilyn cook it for you?”
I don’t hesitate. “It wouldn’t be the same.”
“As your mother’s?”
I nod.
My mother passed away before I made my billions. It’s common knowledge, so Skye no doubt knows. I don’t talk about her, though. Just eating this stew brings back a lot of memories that are better left buried.
“Tell me about your mother,” Skye says.
I swallow a bite of stew and dart my gaze to the side. Nope. Not going there. “I don’t talk about her.”
“Why?”
I meet her gaze this time. “It’s too hard.”
She doesn’t press, thank God. “What about your dad? Can you tell me about him?”
“You can google him and find out everything.”
“I don’t want to read it in some rag, Braden. I want you to tell me.”