Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
“You’re finally up,” he grunts, stripping out of his poncho, which he hangs on a hook by the door.
“Finally? What time is it?” I ask.
“Seven–thirty.”
“That’s not that late,” I laugh. “I thought you were gonna say like eleven.”
“Well, you wake with the sun when you live with nature,” he responds, as though what he just said was obvious wisdom I should have been taught when I was a little girl. Of course, thinking about it now, it does seem quite obvious. There are no blinds or curtains on the windows in the bedroom, so it does make sense that Tyson would rise and sleep with the sun.
“Sorry. It won’t happen again,” I tease.
He turns and stares at me, and it’s like I’m suddenly frozen in place. His eyes are filled with such power. I haven’t even known him a full day and yet somehow, I’m desperate to understand him.
“Do you know how to cook?”
“A little. But I’m not that great,” I confess.
“Well I’m hungry,” he replies. “I need to wash up. And while I do, I need you to make me some bacon, eggs, and toast.”
Before I can even reply, he kicks off his boots and starts to head upstairs, as though I’m just going to accept what he just said.
“Wait a second,” I reply. “You need me to make some bacon, eggs, and toast? Why? Because I’m the woman I’m just your slave that you can order around to have do whatever you want? Isn’t that a bit stereotypical?”
Tyson stops midstride, and a pit instantly forms in the middle of my stomach. I know I just said the wrong thing.
He turns back to look at me, and I see a serious, stony look on his face. Very slowly, he takes several steps toward me and stops when he’s only a few feet away. I can smell his sweat. His manly musk must have built up from working outside, and my body instantly starts to tingle again.
“Let me ask you something, city girl,” he says, his voice low. “Did I not save you yesterday from being lost in a terrible storm in the mountains where you could have gotten hypothermia and died?”
It’s impossible to describe how stupid I suddenly feel as I process his question.
“Y–yes, you did.”
“And what about that?” he asks. “Should I not have saved you because it was ‘stereotypical’ for the man to save the woman?”
Somebody smack me with the world’s biggest carnival hammer, because that’s how stupid I feel right now.
I shake my head in shame and lower my eyes. “No, I…I get what you’re saying. I apologize.”
“So do you think you can make some breakfast?” he asks. “Or is that too much for you?”
I nod quickly. “I can. And I’ll do my best to make it the best breakfast I’ve ever made.” I say it and I mean it. For sure.
“Good,” he replies. He turns to go, and I feel as though it’s okay to raise my eyes again. “Oh, how would you like your eggs?”
“Edible,” he grunts on his way up the stairs. “Make enough for yourself as well.”
As soon as Tyson reaches the second floor, I’m off. I race to the fridge and find a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon. I start to pan fry the bacon first, then scramble the eggs while I toast the bread that I find in one of the larger drawers.
I can’t remember the last time I made a man a meal, but I really want to make this good for him. Not just “edible,” but incredible.
I focus hard on not burning the bacon, on not drying out the eggs while I cook them, and making sure I don’t burn the toast. And by the end of it all, when I’m plating everything and fetching the orange marmalade from the fridge, I hear Tyson coming downstairs and realize I actually just had a really great time doing it all.
“Have a seat,” I tell him, walking both plates over to the table. He gives me an inquisitive look but pulls out a chair and plants himself in it. He’s wearing a worn pair of jeans and a red and black flannel shirt that can barely handle the size of his chest and arms. “And enjoy.”
I set his plate down in front of him, put mine down where I’ll be sitting, and go back to the kitchen for drinks.
“What would you like?” I ask.
“Just water is fine,” he replies.
“Don’t get too fancy on me,” I tease, pouring him a water and myself an orange juice. He’s already halfway through his meal once I take my seat, which must be a good sign. “So, you like it?”
He nods, and a warm buzz shoots through me. “You did well. You sure you’re not a cook?”
“Analyst at Goldman Sachs,” I reply. He simply nods. I can’t tell if he’s uninterested or doesn’t know what I’m talking about.