Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Thanks for this,” Zach says as he takes a seat.
His words warm me. It’s nice to be appreciated. “No problem,” I reply. “I hope I didn’t tear you away from your research.”
“I need to pace myself. And it’s late.” He picks up his knife and fork and I do the same. “I love cabbage,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. It seems such a boyish, sweet thing to say. “Good.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, but it’s not awkward. He’s got nice table manners. Shane always ate like there was a sand timer on the table, and when all the grains had run through, a hatch would open on the table and swallow his plate.
“It’s delicious,” he says. “All of it. My mother makes this for me and my brothers. It’s just as good as hers.”
I try and swallow a grin—as good as his mum makes? I’ll take it. “How many brothers do you have?”
“Four. I’m the second oldest.”
“There are five of you?” I can’t help but wonder if they’re all as good looking as Zach.
One side of Zach’s mouth rises in a lopsided grin. “Yeah. Looking back, I don’t know how my parents coped with us when we were younger. They both had really demanding hospital jobs.”
“They’re doctors?”
He laughs. “I can tell you’re not in medicine. Dad is. Mum’s a surgeon. And so are three of my brothers.”
“Wow. I bet that leads to a lot of shop talk around the kitchen table.”
His smile dims and he nods. “All the time. It’s good and it’s sometimes not so good. What about you. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“A younger sister. She’s still at home.”
“Oh wow. Much younger, then.”
I tilt my head and shoot him a really? I’m-not-that-old look.
“What?” he asks. “Did I get it wrong?”
I shrug. “She’s ten years younger than me.”
“So much younger. I’m not saying you’re old. How old are you anyway? Thirty?”
“Twenty-eight. But thanks.”
“So I was right.”
“No,” I reply. “You thought I was two years older than I am. Not the best compliment I’ve had today.” I’m smiling as I speak. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel a bit better that he’s not smoother. Maybe because I’ve made mistake after mistake in front of him. I’m not perfect and neither is he.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s two years. I’m thirty-two. I assumed we were about the same age.”
I laugh. “Stop digging that hole you’re in. I’ll take thirty if your more accurate guess is thirty-two.”
“If you’re pretty at twenty-five, you’re pretty at thirty-five,” he says matter-of-factly, and the word pretty echoes in my brain like the sonorous chime of a church bell. “Women don’t age between twenty-five and thirty-five.”
“Is that your medical opinion?” I don’t fish for compliments or ask him to clarify whether he’s calling me pretty. If he did, it was inadvertent, and I don’t want to embarrass him.
“Just my male opinion.”
“Men don’t age between thirty and forty-five,” I say. “And a lot of men get better looking in that time period. They grow into their bodies and their faces or something.”
“I look forward to it.” He takes a forkful of food and chews.
“Not likely. You’ve hit the ceiling.” I wince, regretting the words the moment they leave my mouth. I’ve got to learn to keep my inside voice, inside.
He frowns. “The ceiling?”
I shrug. It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s good looking. “You’re not going to get better looking,” I say.
He chuckles but doesn’t say anything and the fact that he doesn’t unleashes something in me. He has a weird kind of confidence that’s like an ovary magnet. It’s either he’s had compliments about his looks so often over the course of his life that it barely registers, or he doesn’t care that he’s gorgeous. Either way, it’s like suddenly, I can’t stop noticing how handsome he is. He’s got broad, solid shoulders, and long legs that are poking sideways under the table in a seemingly deliberate attempt not to encroach on my space. He’s got the kind of body that could stand between you and a hurricane—like a superhero who uses his body to shield innocent civilians. He should put a call in to Marvel.
He glances up and I look away. I’ve been caught staring. I just can’t not. I need to snap out of it.
“So, you’re going to be up here two weeks?” I ask.
“Maybe a little more,” he replies. “Depends how things go with my…you know, the research.”
I want to ask him why on earth he took on the expenses of an assistant and an office on Wimpole Street when he’s doing research. But I don’t want to talk myself out of a job. He’s a clever guy. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can help with. Data entry. Proofreading. Anything. I like to be busy.”