Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
He widens his eyes. “Yes.”
“Oh . . .” I shrug. “I didn’t get lemons.”
He stares at me for a beat. “I need lemons.”
“For what?”
“To garnish.”
I screw up my face. “It’s only a garnish. Who cares, then?”
“It’s in the recipe, Juliet.”
“Oh my god, will you relax about the stupid recipe, just chuck shit in.”
He inhales sharply as if frustrated. “I do not just chuck shit in, and for the record, this is probably why your cooking is ordinary.” He glances over toward the door. “What are you doing?” he growls. “Do not eat that.”
I turn to see Barry carrying his shoe around in his mouth. “Barry.”
Barry looks up at us, completely clueless, and Henley walks over and takes his shoe off him. “This is not food.” He walks into the kitchen and begins to get things ready. “Fuck’s sake, dog, you’re a liability.”
“He’s hungry too. Can you cook some extra for him?”
“Hard no.” He fakes a smile and then drops his face.
I sit and watch him for a moment as he lines all the ingredients up and then lays out all the cooking utensils. Everything is done in a specific order. He’s so methodical in the way he does things, the ultimate control freak. “I’m going to get the washing off the line,” I say.
He flicks the tea towel over his shoulder as he concentrates on the task at hand. “Okay.”
I walk out to my backyard and break into a huge goofy grin. The hottest man on earth is in my kitchen cooking dinner for me.
How is this real?
I take my time and get my washing off the line, and then I water my backyard. I keep glancing in through my kitchen window to Henley as he putters around, just to make sure that I’m not dreaming right now.
Nope, he’s still there.
This is really happening . . . aah!
Eventually I carry the huge-ass washing basket inside, and the scent of garlic and herbs fills the house. “Oh, that smells good.” I dump the washing basket onto the floor.
Henley glances up at it and then goes back to chopping vegetables.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask as I flick the kettle on.
Henley glances back at the basket of washing. “No thanks.”
“What about a glass of wine?”
“No.” His eyes go back to the basket of washing. “What’s happening over there?”
“What do you mean?”
“The washing. Why is it on the floor?”
“I just got it off the line.”
“And?” He widens his eyes. “What are you going to do with it now?”
“Oh . . .” I pick up the basket of washing and carry it into the living room and tip it upside down and dump it on the couch.
His face falls in horror. “You did not just do that.”
“Do what?” I frown.
“You don’t . . .” He shakes his head as if he’s about to explode.
“You don’t what?”
“You don’t dump the washing on the fucking couch, Juliet,” he blurts out in a rush.
I look around and shrug. “I do.”
“Oh my god.” He washes his hands and marches out into the living room in exasperation. He begins to fold the washing at double speed.
“What are you doing?” I frown.
“Folding your fucking washing. What does it look like?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s triggering me. How it is not triggering you is the question.” He folds a T-shirt and puts it onto the couch. He folds another shirt and puts it on top of the other. “You never told me you were messy,” he huffs. “I don’t do messy, Juliet.”
“Washing on the couch is hardly messy, Hen.”
“I beg to differ.” He flicks a pair of jeans as he folds them. “What happens if we want to sit on that couch?”
“Then we throw it onto the floor.” I shrug.
He closes his eyes and holds his hand up. “Stop talking.” He picks up a pair of my panties and holds them up. They are full brief beige granny panties. “What in god’s name are these?”
I get the giggles at his horrified face. “What does it look like?”
He marches out into the kitchen and puts the panties in Barry’s bowl. “You have permission to eat these,” he tells him. “Rip the fuckers to shreds.”
Barry turns his head to the side in confusion.
Henley rolls his eyes. “Dumb dog.” He marches back out to the living room. “I have to do everything around here—cook the dinner, fold your washing, and supply all the orgasms?”
I smile over at my beautiful grumpy man. “It works for me.”
“What do I get for doing all of this?” He flicks a T-shirt before he folds it.
“Me.”
His eyes rise to meet mine.
“You get me, Hen. All of me.”
A trace of a smile crosses his face. “Well . . . all right, then.”
He goes back to folding, and I walk over and wrap my arms around him from behind. “You’re so adorable, do you know that?”