Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
It isn’t as it seems.
“When Daniel heard I had called in sick, he told my father he would pop in to check on me. He even brought homemade chicken noodle soup with him.”
“Awww. That’s so sweet.” Octavia smiles at Daniel before shifting her eyes to Caleb who hasn’t entered the living room any further even after hearing my excuse for a male visitor in my apartment. “I guess you could still make your soup, and we could freeze it.”
“You brought me soup?” I sound shocked. Rightfully so. I’ve gone from having no pop-in visitors for months to two in one day, and they both arrived with gifts.
With Caleb still mute, Octavia picks up the slack. “He bought the ingredients to make soup.”
Caleb doesn’t let my excitement get away from me. “Tivy said you were sick. I love chicken noodle soup, so I grabbed some stuff from the pantry. No big deal.”
It is a big deal—a huge one—but I play it cool. “I love chicken noodle soup too, and Daniel only bought enough from the deli for one, so if you want to make yours, that’s cool. I’ll show you where the saucepans are.”
Lines groove the skin between Octavia’s wide eyes when Caleb mutters, “I know where they are,” before he stalks into my kitchen.
I only realize I am staring at his retreating frame when Octavia butts her shoulder with mine and whispers, “How does he know where you keep your cookware?”
“He… ah…” Cooked me bacon and eggs in the buff. Licked maple syrup off my fingers before replacing the sticky substance with something far more tarty. But since I can’t say that, I settle on, “He… needs my help.”
Before she can respond, I thrust the remote into her chest, plonk her backside into the spare seat next to Daniel, then race into the kitchen like my ass is on fire.
“Oh my God.” Octavia slurps up a noodle before it can slip from her spoon prior to locking her eyes with mine. “That is the most delicious soup I’ve ever tasted.”
Caleb sounds peeved during his reply, but there’s an edge of humor in his tone. “Why are you looking at her while offering praise? I cooked the damn thing, so why aren’t you stroking my ego.”
With her head slanted and her brow arched, Octavia snaps her eyes to Caleb. “You can cook, but not like this. This was delicious, hence me knowing the real source of the goodness.”
We worked together making the soup, but it was my grandma’s secret butter sautéed herb mixture that gave the dish an extra kick of flavor. It makes any bland meal magical, and it only takes a handful of ingredients.
Caleb pffts Octavia, but the people seated around my small dining table break into laughter when he throws the soup-stained towel into her face. “We cooked, so you clean.”
He plucks me off my seat before walking me into the living room like he’s forgotten about my other guest. “Dani—”
“Is going to help Tivy clean,” Caleb interrupts, his steps not reducing in the slightest despite my legs refusing to move. “Aren’t you, Daniel?”
Daniel chokes and splatters before eventually pushing out, “Most certainly.”
I’m not surprised when he places me at the very end of the sofa before he slots his backside into the seat next to me. Even with our eyes barely locking most of the night, Caleb doesn’t hide his jealousy well. His cheeks turned the color of beets when Daniel pulled out the chair next to him to offer me a seat, then the tablecloth ruffled from the breeze that whizzed out of his hand when he balled it into a fist from Daniel laying a napkin across my lap. My skirt is short, but the length of the tablecloth means Caleb couldn’t see that Daniel’s hand didn’t get within an inch of my bare skin.
This is wrong of me to admit, but I kind of wish Daniel was a little more outlandish with his affections. I shouldn’t want to make Caleb jealous, but I do. Very much so.
“It’s your turn to pick.” Caleb hands me the remote before slouching low into the sofa. "And please don’t pick a lame eighties movie like Tivy would.”
“I thought you liked Leslie Nielsen?”
He shifts his head from the television to me. “I do. I’m just not sure it would be appropriate while your date is here.” He spits out the word ‘date.’
“He’s not my date. And I have no clue what you’re talking about.” I do, and it is taking everything not to squirm in my seat, recalling the last time we watched an eighties movie together, but I’m not going to let him know that. “I’d rather watch a classic than a remake. Nothing is as good the second time around.”
Ouch! Even my ego took offense to the cattiness in my reply.