Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I could easily handle two people using this kitchen. Maybe I am the selfish bitch that I accused Dragon of calling me. I sigh and open my refrigerator.
I grab the pound of ground beef that I took out to defrost yesterday. My family is in the beef business, so I eat a lot of beef. I’ll fry myself a burger, and I’ll have leftovers for tomorrow.
And for some reason, without thinking—
I head back to the door, open it, and dart my gaze down the hallway.
Dragon stands, waiting for the elevator.
“Dragon?”
He turns and raises his dark eyebrows.
“I’m making myself a burger. There’s too much for just me. Do you want one?”
He cocks his head.
Doesn’t say anything.
“Do you think that’s a trick question?” I ask.
He walks toward me. When he gets to the door, he simply says, “Sure.”
For a second, I think he’s replying to my trick question comment, but he’s actually accepting my dinner invitation.
I can’t house him, but I can at least feed him. Maybe it will show him that I’m not some horrible heiress who can’t bother herself to help someone in need.
Because frankly, Dragon is not in need. He’s a member of Dragonlock, an up-and-coming rock band that I know is going to make it big. And he has access to Jesse’s wallet, so he doesn’t need to stay here. He can easily find another place.
I mean seriously. Why did it have to be here? With me?
None of that makes any sense at all.
“What do you like on your burger?” I ask as I head back into the kitchen.
“Everything,” he says.
I purse my lips. “Okay, that doesn’t tell me shit. I’ve got lettuce, tomato, onion, avocado, ketchup, mustard, mayo. Cheddar cheese, smoked Gouda, pepper jack.”
He nods. “Sounds great.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not telling me you want all of that on your burger.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Three different kinds of cheese?”
He shrugs. “Uh…yeah. I’m pretty sure you understand English.”
I roll my eyes and turn back toward the kitchen. “Fine.”
I take the ground beef and form it into four quarter-pound burgers. “You want a double?”
“Yeah, sounds great.”
I fry three of the burgers, saving the fourth for my lunch tomorrow, on a cast-iron grill pan while I slice some tomato, onion, and avocado.
I pull two of my cousin Ava’s—she’s a gourmet baker in our small hometown of Snow Creek, Colorado—brioche buns out of the freezer and put them in the toaster.
The savory scent of beef fills my penthouse. It’s a comforting scent, a familiar scent. Reminds me of being at home when I was a kid, hanging with Brianna and our two older brothers, Dale and Donny.
Dragon is still standing in the foyer.
“You can sit down,” I tell him.
He nods and walks toward my small kitchen table. He lifts his eyebrows.
“Anywhere is fine,” I say.
He nods again and takes a seat—right in the chair I usually use, but whatever.
The buns pop out of the toaster, and I set each of them on a plate, dousing them with ketchup, mustard, and mayo, though I skip the mayo on my own. Once the burgers are done, I lay a slice of cheese on Dragon’s bun, place a burger on top of it, and then top the second patty with the remaining two slices of cheese. I swear to God, my stomach gurgles as I do it. That’s way more cheese than I can eat at one time. I’d be spending the evening in the bathroom. I finish with lettuce, tomato, onion, and avocado, place a handful of potato chips on the side, and take the plate over to him.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
“You sure? I have diet soft drinks and iced tea.”
“Water,” he repeats.
Okay, then.
I grab a glass out of my cupboard, fill it with ice and water from the door of my refrigerator, and take it to Dragon along with a napkin.
When he doesn’t eat, I say, “Go ahead. I’ll be here in a minute.”
I assemble my own burger with only one slice of cheese—the Gouda—and sit down opposite Dragon at my small table.
He takes a bite, chews, swallows, and then wipes his chin with his napkin. “Good,” he says.
“Glad you like it.” I take a bite of my own burger.
It’s good. Delicious, actually. My family raises the best beef in the nation. Even our ground beef, which is made from the less-expensive cuts, is tastier than most non-Steel filet mignon. It’s all grass-fed, which gives it a richer flavor.
Dragon doesn’t talk as he eats, and I start to feel a little awkward.
Okay. A lot awkward.
Why did I invite him in here for dinner again? Just to prove some stupid point about me not being a big snob?
I like to savor my food. I don’t like to eat too quickly. Everyone in my family was raised to appreciate food—the fact that it’s art as well as sustenance. Each flavor and texture is something to be discovered and enjoyed. Even something as simple as a burger.