Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
The Uber ride is long and stressful. I think of all those inappropriate things he wants to do to me, and by the time I’m about to knock on his door, I have an entire scene playing out in my head where he drags me into some dungeon playroom and chains me to a bed to test out all these—
“Are you planning on standing outside my door all evening?”
His voice snaps me out of my possibly real-life Fifty Shades fantasy, and I look at him. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a fitted gray shirt, looking even more attractive if possible. “What? No. I was making sure this was the right door.”
Theo leans out and looks down the hall. “The last time I checked, there was only one door on the penthouse floor.”
Oh, shut up. “Are you going to invite me in?”
His lips curl into a smug smile. “Of course.” He steps to the right, and I walk inside, getting my first glance at his place. It’s a lot cozier than I’d imagined. Bright abstract portraits cover his walls, and his furniture is modern yet homely. And his kitchen—
“Holy mother of kitchens.” I walk over to his ginormous island. “I think I just orgasmed looking at your appliances.” My mouth hangs open while I survey his immaculate chef’s kitchen. “I didn’t know you liked to cook,” I say, shocked. Floor-to-ceiling shelves are loaded with stainless-steel appliances that put half of the cooking shows I watch to shame.
“I don’t cook.”
“What? Are you kidding me? Then, why do you have all this. . . stuff?” I wave to all the beautiful, top-notch equipment, not to mention the built-in wood fire pizza oven and wine dispenser.
“Francene Barro lived here before me.”
I sway on my feet, and Theo reaches out to steady me. “You’re joking. Like the Francene Barro from Kitchen Wars?” It’s like being on the set of her cooking show. I look back at him. “Okay, now I’m officially jealous.”
“Would you like some wine?” he offers.
“Sure.” He walks into the kitchen and grabs a glass from the cabinet. “Please tell me you at least have your personal chef make you pizzas in that oven.”
“No to the pizza and no to the personal chef.”
My eyes widen. “Serious?”
“Very serious.”
I drool at the Venus Century Espresso machine, recognizing it from Bon Appetit a few months ago. “How often do you make espressos?”
“Never.”
“Why not?” I practically shriek.
“It was a gift.”
I stare at the insanely expensive coffee maker. “This is wrong for so many reasons. These poor appliances. They’re meant to be used and enjoyed.”
I point to the corner of his counter. “What about the juicer?” There’s no way that thing is less than ten thousand dollars.
“I use the juicer.”
I sigh. “Phew. I was going to call the kitchen police for neglect.” He laughs and hands me my wine. “Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Does this mean you’ll be disappointed that I had dinner catered?”
I look at him, then scan his super cool pizza oven before bringing my attention back to him. “No, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Fay, would you like to test out that pizza oven?”
“No, it’s fine. I mean, unless you want to. Don’t change your plans because of me.”
He eyes me for a beat, then reaches for my hand. “Come, sit.” I sit at the island, and he pulls up the stool next to me. “Tell me something about you.”
I chuckle into my glass and take a sip. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m not very interesting.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
I watch him sip his bourbon while I think of a response. “Well, I’m originally from Ohio. My parents moved us to New Jersey about four years ago. My mom wanted to be closer to her sister, and I enrolled in their culinary school.”
“Did you always want to be a chef?”
“Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve been obsessed with creating things. It’s why I fell in love with cooking. Taking a bunch of things from scratch and creating a beautiful piece of art. God, I made some messes. My mom started hiding food so I wouldn’t get to it.” I laugh. “She hid all the bowls once, thinking it would deter me from mixing my newest creation, so I got inventive and used the toilet bowl.”
“Please don’t tell me—”
“It took my dad a long time after that to taste test anything I made. Anyway. Fast forward, and I went to culinary school to become a chef. I loved it. I knew it was my calling. Well, I knew when I was four and said I made Eggs Benedict from my plastic food set—sorry, I’m babbling.”
“No, I want to hear this.”
“Okay, blink twice if you’re about to fall asleep. When I graduated, I got lucky and landed a gig as a station chef in one of the hottest restaurants, which is almost unheard of that soon out of school. It was thrilling. Scary. The best feeling in the world. I was working with ingredients I’d only dreamed of cooking with. State-of-the-art cutlery. Man, a nice sharp blade against a fresh cut of tuna . . .”