Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“And bring me brioche in bed,” I add with a dreamy sigh.
Rye grunts. He’s got his eye on his food, but his broad shoulders are stiff. “Would never work.”
So far, I’ve been able to avoid looking his way. No one will think anything of us ignoring each other. We usually do. Unless we’re taking a swipe at each other. I didn’t think he’d take a shot at me now.
“Oh? And why is that?”
He shrugs, swallowing a drink from his own beer bottle—he’d swatted away Scottie’s efforts to get him a glass earlier. “Chefs save their cooking for the restaurant. Get them at home and they just want to shove whatever they can in their mouths and then sleep.”
His gaze flicks up and collides with mine. I feel it like a physical punch of heat. “You really think this hypothetical chef husband of yours will want to come off a shift and cook for all of us? I doubt it.”
“Rye isn’t wrong.” Stella’s red-gold curls bounce with a nod as she scoops a mound of kimchi. “The chefs I knew were like that.” She glances up and realizes that Rye and I are glaring at each other. “Of course, there are always exceptions.”
“You’re making it sound like I’d only get married to the guy to use him for his cooking,” I say to Rye.
He blinks, his expression placid. And annoying. “Isn’t that what you just implied?”
My back teeth meet with a click. “Do you honestly think we’re being serious here?”
“Sure you weren’t.” He snorts with a smile. “I can practically see the croissants dancing in your eyes.”
I eye a slice of eomuk on my plate. It would make such a nice juicy thwap hitting Rye’s forehead. “It’s called hyperbole, Rye. Maybe try it sometime.”
“Hyperbole, huh?” He rubs his chin like he’s trying to figure out what the word means, when I know perfectly well that he already does. An evil gleam lights his eyes. “You mean like, this barbecue sauce is so good, I want to lick it off—”
“All right,” Scottie cuts in. “If I have to hear your sex fantasies, Rye, I’m liable to lose my dinner. And that is not hyperbole.”
Rye chuckles and reaches for the carton of dumplings. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m done.”
The guys start arguing over how far-reaching Kraftwerk’s influence was on modern sound, and I zone out, stewing in my annoyance. Rye is his usual cocky and easygoing self. Laughing in that boisterous way that has the corners of his eyes crinkling and those little half-moon dimples forming on his cheeks.
Under the table, my hand fists the loose folds of my skirt. I feel duped. Yes, we’d agreed to keep this…arrangement a secret, but I hadn’t expected him to still antagonize me. It reminds me of all the times he made me feel like a fool. Worse, I feel vulnerable. After years of working to protect myself, the sensation twists in my stomach.
I suck in a breath and push back from the table. Rye’s laugh falters, and he glances my way, the motion so quick, I’d have missed it if I weren’t hyperaware of him. Damn it. I don’t want this awareness, this weakness.
“You okay, Bren?” Libby asks at my side.
“Of course,” I say with forced lightness. “Just getting some more beers for the table. Anyone want anything else to drink?”
I’m waved off. They’ve moved on to whether Off the Wall or Thriller was Michael Jackson’s greatest album.
“You’re completely wrong,” Rye practically shouts at Whip, his arms animated in his fervor. “Thriller is too slick and commercial. It was produced with hits in mind. Off the Wall was pure Michael. He got to truly play with his sound for the first time.”
Whip snorts long and loud. “I can’t believe you, who’s endlessly fiddling with sound, are dinging an album for being too perfectly produced.”
I walk out of the dining room before I’m subjected to any more. Someday, I’d love to go a week without hearing a word or note of music.
Once I’m in the hall, I sigh with relief. Unlike some of the open-concept apartments my friends live in, my condo is prewar with classically separated rooms. I actually love that feature because it means I can escape into my kitchen and rest against the counter for a quiet moment without everyone seeing me. I take a few calming breaths, determined not to think about Rye anymore.
That’s when he walks in.
He stands inside the kitchen, his big body filling the doorway, his blue eyes narrowed on me. My frazzled nerves jump and twitch, and I clench the side of the marble countertop to steady myself.
“What’s wrong?” His deep voice stays low so no one will hear us.
A laugh rasps my throat, but I don’t find this funny. “Are you serious now, Mr. Hyperbole?”
With a quick glance toward the dining room, he moves farther into the kitchen, his gait stiff and halting like he’s trying to restrain himself. I take a breath as he comes within touching distance. He makes a furtive motion, reaching for me but stopping short with a growl of frustration.