Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
“We need somewhere private.”
I nod.
“My sister is at my place.”
I nod.
“So your place?”
“Seven?” I’m making plans in my head already. Dinner. I’ll cook her dinner. We’ll talk. Talk? Cook? What the hell? But it’s out before I think better of it. “I’ll cook.”
“Then I’ll see you at seven,” she confirms, backing out of my office, apparently not as surprised by my suggestion as I am.
The urge to stop her and snatch a quick kiss nearly gets the better of me, my feet shifting on the carpet restlessly. She smiles, like she’s aware of my battle. “Please, just go,” I plead, forcing my backward steps. Her face straightens, and she nods, zipping out the door.
I release air and stumble to my desk. I just offered to cook for her. I’ve never cooked a meal in my life. What was I thinking? She’ll run away before I get her to mains. Gina. I’ll ask Gina what to do. She’s a great cook. No. I can’t ask Gina. That’ll raise all kinds of suspicions. Fuck. “Mum.” I dive on my phone and call the only other woman on the planet who can help me.
“What’s happened?” she asks in greeting.
“Nothing,” I sigh. “Why does everyone always think something’s happened when I call them?”
“Because everyone usually calls you, Tyler, darling. So what’s happened?”
I pout. “I’m cooking.”
Mum gasps. It’s a perfectly warranted gasp. “For?”
I scowl. “A woman.” I cough over my answer, like some stupid attempt to disguise it.
Mum gasps again. Another perfectly warranted, shocked gust of air. Her son is cooking for a woman. This is a big fucking deal. But before she points that out, she composes herself and clears her throat. “I’ll have my famous mushroom stroganoff ready at six for you to collect.”
I beam. “I love you, Mum.”
“I know, darling. You want my homemade apple pie to go with it?”
My smile widens. “Love you more.”
“I better get cooking.” She hangs up before I can say goodbye, and I spend the rest of my working day trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing . . . even if I know I can’t stop myself from doing it.
I SCREECH UP TO THE pavement and jump out, running up the path to Mum’s house. She opens the door before I make it, a hessian bag in her hand, an apron wrapped around her waist. “Put the stroganoff on one seventy degrees for half an hour. And the pie on one sixty degrees for forty minutes.”
I grab the bag and give her the biggest, sloppiest kiss. “Thanks, Mum.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. I was cooking the stroganoff today anyway, so I did double.”
I pull back, and she smiles brightly. She was cooking her famous stroganoff anyway? She only does that for special people on special occasions. “Don’t put me in a bad mood, Mum.”
“Ted will be here soon.”
“Great,” I grumble, heading back to my car.
“Who’s the lucky girl?” Mum calls, and I pause for a beat, wondering what to say. I can’t tell her, I can’t tell anyone, but I’m distracted from fobbing her off when a flashy old Jag pulls up to the curb. “Oh, here’s Ted,” she sings.
I hop in my car before I’m forced to make pleasantries, letting my window down and waving as I race away. I haven’t got time to hang around. Lainey is due in an hour, and I have to prepare.
I sprint through the foyer at the speed of light, Herb and Egor probably following my path with bewildered eyes. “Hey, guys,” I call, landing in front of the elevator.
“Something smells good,” Herb says, rubbing his belly.
I dive in the lift when the doors open and look up to the floor display, tapping my foot impatiently. “Come on.” I get my phone from my pocket when it chimes and clear the text from Jenna. I need to focus on the night ahead. I have the compulsion to impress, and not in the bedroom. It’s a revelation.
Letting myself into my apartment, I go straight to the kitchen and turn the oven on to . . . was it one sixty or one seventy degrees? “Shit.” I grab my phone and call Mum. “One sixty or one seventy?” I ask when she answers.
“One seventy for the stroganoff, one sixty for the pie.”
“Thanks.” I chuck my phone on the side and slide the dish into the oven, then I head for the shower. I scrub, trim my stubble, splash on my faithful cologne, and then I stand in my dressing room scanning my rows of suits. Way too formal. I’m at home. I move to my other wardrobe and flick through endless jeans, settling on a loose-fitting washed-out pair. Shirt? T-shirt? Polo? I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by the simplicity of choosing what to wear. I put on a shirt and take it back off. I pull on a plain white T-shirt and take it off.