Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Maybe I fell asleep while trying to read. That would make sense. It would explain why he didn’t lock me inside the room. Because there’s no way that actually happened.
I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts and come up with something to say since hanging around silently feels weird. “Is there anything I can help with?”
“No. I’ve got it all under control.” He jerks his chin at the table. “Sit down.” I do it not because I want to sit or even because I want to avoid angering him. Now, I’m invested and need to see how this plays out. A man in the kitchen is more likely to burn water than boil it.
Yeah, I’m not going to miss that. Lucas appears to know his way around the kitchen. Granted, there’s nothing that challenging about boiling pasta, but still. Nate tried to cook macaroni and cheese from a box one time, and he ended up setting the kitchen on fire. I’m still not sure how he managed that one.
I’ll never get to ask him. The thought makes a lump form in my throat. Eventually, I’m going to have to deal with losing him, and so suddenly. Maybe it would be easier if I’d had the chance to say goodbye.
But somebody stole that opportunity from me, didn’t she?
“You okay over there?” I didn’t know he was looking at me, and now I had to fight to get my facial expression under control.
“I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
About how much I want to watch Aspen die for what she did. Yeah, right, that would go well. “Life, I guess. I don’t know.”
“How are classes coming along? Do you think you can catch up?”
What a fucking joke. Like it matters. What’s the endgame at a place like this? To graduate? I thought this was supposed to be a stopover, a way for him to control me for as long as he could. He’s making it sound like this is permanent. “I can handle it.”
“Good.” He stirs the sauce before turning off the heat under that pot. He then bends over, rooting around in the cabinet. I shouldn’t stare at his ass, but it’s right there in front of me. And it looks so perfect, round and firm. I’ve never seen an ass like that on a man. Just one more example of how disciplined he is.
Then there’s his ink; the intricate lines and color make me want to lean in and examine his skin. And he definitely has a temper—I’ve been on the receiving end of that. I can’t help thinking there’s another side to him. A side I might like to meet.
He pops up a second later with a strainer in hand and drains the pasta, then dumps it back into the pot before pouring the sauce over it.
The next thing I know, he turns around with a plate in each hand, piled high with spaghetti. “It’s not gourmet, but I can boil a mean pasta dinner.”
How bizarre is this? Like we’re two normal people having a normal dinner. He’s almost like a real person. I was just getting used to the way he is, and now he’s changing things up.
“Thank you. This is unexpected.” The smell makes my mouth water, and even though I know he had nothing to do with it—it’s not like the sauce was homemade—I can’t help but warm a little toward him. I even smile, and it’s a genuine smile, not one I’m using to get something I want. I don’t think I understood until now how much I do that.
“Don’t get used to this. I’m still locking you up after dinner.”
“Of course.” I don’t even care at this point.
“Sometimes I like to cook up something, sort of keep my hand in the game, you know?” He almost seems like he’s in a decent mood, too. What was he doing earlier before he came back? Whatever it was, he should do more of it.
Then like a ton of bricks falling from the sky, directly onto my head, it hits me. Him leaving the door open and making me dinner, being a little less of an asshole while trying to appear as if he cares.
He feels guilty because he basically did the same thing to me that Rick and Bruno did. I guess hearing about it from the doctor made him take a better look at himself.
I deliberately keep my eyes on my plate, twirling noodles around my fork. “You know, you don’t have to go to all this trouble because you feel bad or something.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks with a little laugh.
“Because of what you talked about with the doctor. And, you know…” I can barely get the words out, and now I wish I hadn’t said anything. I can feel the warmth in my cheeks growing. “Because of what you did.”