Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“You’re right,” I agree, saving what I was working on so I can work on it at home. It’s not like I’m actually going home to spend time with my fake fiancé.
When I get home, I park inside the garage and notice Julian is home since his car and truck are both present. I close the garage door and then head in through the mudroom that’s located off the side of the kitchen, immediately getting a whiff of what smells like garlic.
Mmm, Italian.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I didn’t eat lunch or dinner because I was too busy working on my pitch for the Ronan Flynn collaboration.
I’m expecting Julian to be at the table with takeout, so I’m taken aback when I instead find him standing in front of the stove, dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a white shirt, his feet bare, stirring something in a pot.
“Are you cooking?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He glances my way and chuckles. “No, I just thought it would be fun to pour a bunch of ingredients into a pot and watch them boil.”
I roll my eyes at his sarcasm. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“You don’t know a lot of things about me,” he says dryly.
“Touché.”
“When I was growing up, my mom said everyone should know how to cook, clean, and do laundry,” he says, continuing to stir whatever’s in the pot. “She made my sister and me cook with her several times a week, clean our own bedrooms and bathroom, and do our own laundry.” He shrugs. “I have someone come in to clean and do my laundry now that I can afford it and am busy with work, but I prefer to cook for myself rather than go out to eat or order in every night. It’s healthier, and it tastes better.”
I stare at him in shock and awe at how normal that sounds. I’ve never done any of the above, but I’m not about to mention that and sound like a spoiled brat. It’s not that I think I’m above it, but unlike his mom, mine never considered cooking, cleaning, or doing laundry a teachable life lesson. She came from money, and from the time I was born, all of that stuff was always handled.
Unlike my friends though, I only had a nanny when it was necessary—when Mom would attend engagements with my dad that I didn’t go to. She preferred to devote her time to me, and I believe that’s why we were so close. She was my best friend, and I miss her so much.
“So, you think your cooking tastes better, huh?” I say, poking the beast. “Clearly, you’ve never been to Enzo’s in London. It has three Michelin stars.” I walk over to the stove and look into the pot, spotting the tomato sauce. “One of them was for his sauce alone.” I’m making that up, but Julian doesn’t know that.
“No, I’ve never been to Enzo’s,” he admits, taking the spoon and lifting it to my mouth. “And I’ve obviously never been given an award for my food, but I have been told my sauce is delicious.” As the last word rolls off his tongue, the spoon touches my lips, and I still in my spot.
“Blow,” he murmurs, his green eyes filled with mischief.
I do as he said, blowing lightly on the spoon for a few seconds before I part my lips and he slides the spoon into my mouth. Julian feeding me his sauce shouldn’t be such a turn-on, yet I find myself squeezing my legs together, trying to find a little bit of relief.
I close my lips and suck on the wooden spoon, and fresh garlic, several different herbs, sweet tomatoes, and so many other flavors instantly burst against my taste buds.
“Holy shit,” I murmur. “That’s …”
“Orgasmic?” Julian finishes for me, raising a brow. “Yeah, I know.” He smirks and goes back to stirring the sauce. “I’ve been told.”
I don’t know why, but the thought of him feeding other women and them comparing it to orgasms has me seeing green with jealousy. I’ve never been that type of woman, never cared enough about a man to feel that kind of emotion, and the fact that I’m feeling it because of Julian and his damn sauce doesn’t sit well with me. I’m supposed to be focusing on beating him out of the CEO position, not having foodgasms.
“Whatever,” I mutter, walking away.
Before I can get far though, he grabs my wrist and pulls me back to him, my body pressing against his. My hands land on his muscular pecs, and it doesn’t go unnoticed how hard his body is. Was it only a few days ago that I was wrapped around him, kissing him like he was the breath of air I needed to survive?