Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
“So, you like her,” he deduced, tapping his chin. “I’ve never seen you go all psycho serial killer over a chick before.”
I gritted my teeth. “This subject is closed.”
He was right.
I was not a monk. Far from it. I dated. Fucked, more accurately. Women only stayed overnight if I was too tired to kick them out after sex. I did not cook breakfast, did not eat meals beyond dinner. It was only fucking. That much was clear. The second I got an inkling that a woman was getting attached or she got it in her head that she could ‘change’ me, it was over.
I wasn’t an asshole. Or at least I tried my best not to be an asshole. Made sure they always got off before I got off. But I was well aware I could not be described as warm, fuzzy, romantic or any of the other shit women wanted.
“Okay, okay,” Kip held his hands up in surrender. “I’m done.”
“Good,” I grunted.
“But I would get in quick,” he added before I could pull the truck out. “She’s single now. A lot of men are gonna try and get in there.”
“They can try,” I clipped out, my blood burning at the thought of some other piece of shit touching her.
Touching what was mine.
NORA
“That was bad,” I whispered, staring at the door that Tina was locking.
After Rowan left, I’d hightailed it straight to the kitchen and didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day. I retreated into my safe space and baked three different batches of almond cookies and a peanut butter cake with double chocolate frosting.
Fiona stared at me and then the cake I’d just arranged on a cake stand on the counter for tomorrow. The cake itself would be gone before ten in the morning. It was kind of famous. And only made on certain occasions—when I was deep in some kind of anxiety spiral or personal drama.
“It must’ve been bad since you made the Crisis Cake,” she observed.
“It’s a peanut butter cake with double chocolate frosting,” I countered, chewing my lip.
Fiona rolled her eyes. “That is the Crisis Cake.” She pointed at the cake stand.
I continued to gnaw on my lip, unable to argue with her. It was the Crisis Cake. Everyone in the bakery knew that. It was famous. Delicious. Decadent. It cured things only peanut butter and chocolate could cure. I only made it when I felt like my life was spiraling. I’d made it far too often when I was with Nathan. Since breaking up with him, I hadn’t made it once. Until now.
“You weren’t there,” I told her.
“Yes, I was,” she chirped happily, dipping her spoon into the bowl of leftover frosting she’d snatched from me before I could clean it. “I was watching from your perch in the kitchen, usually reserved for your spying whenever Rowan comes in.”
I glared at her. “I do not spy.”
“You totally do.”
I gritted my teeth. “Okay, I bake crisis cakes, I spy on hot guys, and then I make a complete ass of myself in front of hot guys!” I huffed, hiding behind my hands.
Fiona grinned. “You didn’t make a complete ass of yourself.”
I ignored that and snatched up the bucket and brush I had prepared earlier in order to get down on the floor and scrub our pink tiles.
“What are you doing?” Fiona demanded from above me.
I reveled in the satisfaction I got from the brush reaching the dips in the grout, far more effective than our mop was.
“I’m cleaning,” I answered, pointing out the obvious.
“I understand that you’re cleaning,” she huffed. “I just don’t understand why you’re cleaning since we mop every day and scrub that floor once a week. Which we did yesterday. Beyond that, when you’re not baking, you’re running around cleaning like a toddler on cocaine.”
I screwed up my nose. “I don’t like to think of a toddler on cocaine,” I informed her. “And even if I were to think of one, I don’t think a coked-up toddler would be cleaning.”
“Whatever,” Fiona sliced her hand through the air dismissively. “What I’m trying to say is you’re scrubbing a floor that is honestly probably cleaner than my dining room table.”
Although Fiona wasn’t quite the neat freak that I admittedly was, I highly doubted that was true. Her small cottage on the beach was cluttered in that delightful, Nora Ephron kind of way. Cluttered but clean.
“I’m scrubbing the floor to distract myself because I’m likely going to sink into a deep depression when I do think about what an ass I made of myself today,” I grunted, scrubbing harder.
“Jesus Christ, can’t you deal with depression like a regular woman, and use your vibrator until you lose feeling in your clit, drink wine, and eat your weight in imported chocolates?”
I glanced up from where I was scrubbing. “Do regular women really do that?”