Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I bark out a surprised laugh. That sounds more like what I expected from him. “You don’t need fancy manners to eat at my table,” I tell him, already taking my first big bite. There’s no shame in my game. I’m hungry after a long day’s work, so delicate nibbles and putting my fork down between bites isn’t how I roll.
“Thank fuck,” he sighs. Despite looking ready to attack the plate, he scoops up a reasonably-sized bite on his fork and slips it into his mouth. If I hadn’t seen him do that, I’d be worried he was jacking off beneath the table because the moan he lets out is that sexual-sounding. “Holy shit, Dani. This is amazing.” The words are said around a second mouthful that’s shoved in before he swallows the first.
“Thank you.” Pleased at his reaction, I can feel a blush rising on my cheeks. “What do you usually eat for dinner?”
It’s admittedly a test question. So help me if he says cereal or whatever his mom made. Actually, scratch that… so help him because I will absolutely roast him if that’s the case.
He swallows, seeming sad at having to pause before answering. “Chicken or beef if I’ve meal prepped that week. But more often than I should, I resort to pick-up orders from whatever place I’m passing on my way home from the job I’m on.”
“You can cook, though?” I clarify.
“Depends on what you call cooking,” he says, glancing at his plate, which is already half-empty. “I can grill, sauté, bake, and pan-fry chicken and steak. Boil water for pasta and rice. I know what a roux is and can follow a recipe, especially if it’s got a video or pictures. It’s not this” —he points to his plate with his fork before shoving another bite into his mouth— “but it gets me by. Or I thought it was. What’d you put on the brisket? Maybe I could do something like this for my meal prep?” he muses, sounding like he’s considering recreating my recipe for himself.
Some people would be offended, especially if they’re territorial with their recipes. What I heard is that Kyle doesn’t expect me to do it for him, but rather, is willing to work for his own food.
That’s important to a woman like me.
“Adobo sauce. I make it from scratch, but you can buy the store mix and get pretty close, too.”
Kyle licks his fork obscenely, my eyes instantly zeroing in on what his tongue is doing, unconsciously imagining him doing it… elsewhere. “Damn, girl, your dad really screwed up not letting you take over the restaurant. This is ridiculous.”
He says it so casually that I almost don’t fully catch the impact, but it hits bullseye-center, anyway. My jaw drops open as I look at him in shock.
“What?” he says, acting innocent. Or at least what he must think that looks like because there’s nothing innocent about Kyle.
“Too soon,” I scold. But I can’t fight the smile blooming on my face.
“Nah, you’re tough. You can handle some shit-talking. You can dish it out too.” He says that like it’s a good thing as he sits back in his chair, patting his flat but apparently full belly. “Fuck, that was good. Thank you.”
Usually, I’d spar back, but there’s something happening inside my body that I’m trying to figure out. There’s a heat… but it’s not anger like I’m used to feeling. Nor is it arousal despite Kyle looking so sexy, stretched out at my table and complimenting me. It’s something else, something in my chest that feels like pride.
Pride because I am tough, and that someone I’ve known for such a short period of time—and not always at my best—can see that in me so readily. But it’s not about Kyle. It’s about me.
I might not be running my family restaurant, but I’m doing something almost better—creating my own path, fighting for every difficult step toward success, and doing it against all odds.
“You’re welcome,” I say simply, but then add, “but I’m still not feeding you and your guys lunch.”
He mimes stabbing himself in the heart.
Finished with my plate too, I get up. I purposefully don’t reach for Kyle’s plate as I go to the sink. Is it another test? Absolutely. But where I would usually expect him to fail, I’m secretly hoping he’ll pass.
He does, immediately hopping up to come to my side and scrub his plate. We get our dinner dishes dried and put away, and then we both stop, facing each other in front of the sink. It’s a spot I spend a fair portion of my days in, but this feels very different from those times. This feels… big. Especially when he looks at me, his gaze drifting from my left eye to my right, and then down to my lips. I watch as the very corners of his mouth tilt up in the tiniest hint of a smile, and for a moment, I think he’s gonna kiss me again. I stopped him last time, but I’ve been obsessively replaying it in my mind ever since, and I’m still not sure I made the right decision.