Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Levi?” I call into his apartment, not seeing anything but a large black-and-white photo of Mets’ stadium hanging behind his black leather couch. A low, shiny coffee table sits in front of the couch on top of a fluffy gray rug that I would love to have for myself.
“Come on in, baby.” What the hell is going on, and why does he keep calling me baby? Walking through the door, I frown as I watch him set a large bowl full of water on the ground in the kitchen for Muffin, who looks like she’s been at his place every day of her life. “Are eggs and toast good with you?” he asks, and I look to where he’s standing in front of his open fridge.
“Eggs . . .”
“If not, I got a few bagels.”
“Bagels?”
“Babe, are you here with me?” Am I? I don’t even know what’s happening here. “Do you want eggs and toast or a bagel for breakfast?”
“Eggs are good,” I finally get out, and he nods, pulls out a dozen eggs, and sets them on the counter before looking at me once more with his lips twitching.
“Can you shut the door for me?” Feeling awkwardly for the door behind me, I swing it closed, then walk toward the kitchen, not sure what to do with myself. Looking around his place, I notice it’s the complete opposite of mine. Where I have bright colors everywhere, all of his stuff is different shades of blacks mixed with grays and white. His bar stools are chrome with black leather tops; the canisters and things on the counters are all black, including his coffeemaker and toaster. His place is definitely a guy’s place.
Taking a few more steps toward the kitchen, I set Muffin’s leash down on top of the island, then watch him pull out a pan and start up the stove. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled, if that’s okay.”
“You want ham and cheese in them?”
“Sure.” I nod, watching him in confused silence as he starts to crack enough eggs to feed an army.
“You mind making the toast?”
“Okay.” I slide off my jacket, setting it on one of his bar stools, which leaves me in a formfitting long-sleeved top. Going around to the inside of the kitchen, I take the loaf of bread he hands me and put four slices in his toaster while he rips up pieces of ham and cheese, adding them to the bowl with the eggs.
“Would you like coffee?” he asks, dumping the bowl of egg mixture into the pan.
“Yeah, thanks.” I give him a small smile as he pulls down two cups and hands them to me. “Coffee’s there. Milk’s in the fridge. Sugar’s in the tall black thing.” He nods to the counter and sets down both cups. I fill them both, then go to the fridge; when I open it, I notice there’s not even one fast food container, which is also the complete opposite of mine.
“Would you like some?” I hold up the half gallon of milk after dumping a few drops in my coffee.
“Nah, I take my coffee black.” Of course he does—he’s obviously a man’s man, so no way would he put something in coffee to take out the bite that’s supposed to put hair on your chest. “What’s funny?”
“Hmm?” I turn and set his cup of black coffee next to the stove.
“You were smiling.”
“I was?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know,” I lie, picking up my cup and taking a sip of delicious warm coffee.
“Hmm.” He shakes his head, then goes back to flipping and turning the eggs over in the pan.
“Is butter in the fridge?” I ask when the toast pops up, and he looks at me over his shoulder.
“Yep, and plates are above the sink. Knives in the drawer next to it.”
“Cool,” I mutter, then go about getting plates and buttering the toast. Once I’m done, he pulls the pan off the hot stove and scoops out some eggs for himself and me, then pulls down another plate and dumps the rest of the pan onto it. I don’t know what I expect, but when he sets the plate on the ground for Muffin, I’m dumbfounded and tongue-tied.
“Come, eat before it gets cold,” he urges, ushering me around to one of the bar stools and pulling it out for me to sit.
“You just made my dog breakfast,” I blurt once I’m seated, and he chuckles.
“I made you breakfast. I just made enough for her to get some, too,” he mutters, setting a plate in front of me.
“It’s no wonder she’s in love with you,” I grumble as he heads back into the kitchen to get his own plate.
“She just knows a good thing when she sees it,” he says. I watch his mouth move and would swear he adds, unlike her oblivious owner. But I can’t be sure, and no way will I ask him.