Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
My nerves tangled the longer the day went on until it was like I was siphoning off the energy she projected. I think all the new hires noticed too, because they were practically elated to leave once the day was done, so much so they damn near bolted from the door.
I didn’t know what was going on, but I didn’t want Anne to be alone. Things might be complicated between us, but she was undergoing a crucial part in her life right now and she needed all the support she could get. The last thing I wanted was my attempts to keep distance between us outside of work to drive her into a relapse. God knows her family didn’t know her like I did, and had isolated her to the point she had a hard fucking time trusting anyone.
Sure, she and Persephone were mending that old wound between them, but that didn’t mean they understood Anne on the level that I did. And maybe I was an arrogant bastard for thinking so, but I felt like I could offer her support in a way they couldn’t.
“Anne,” I said as she headed for the door.
“Hmm?” she asked, eyes still distant.
“Do you have plans tonight?” My heart screamed at me that this was another bad idea, but I shut that shit down. I could feel it, she needed me. Needed someone who saw her without any of the past wrapped around her.
“Netflix and takeout,” she said, shrugging. “Wild times.”
I laughed. “How about Netflix and a home-cooked meal?”
She furrowed her brow. “Do you think I learned to cook since I last saw you? Because that’s a hard no. I burned Ramen the other day.”
I stepped up to her, shaking my head. “I meant me,” I said, and she arched a brow at me. “Can I cook for you?”
Her pink lips parted, and it took everything in my power not to reach down and capture them with my own. I was still in uniform for fuck’s sake.
“Sure?” she said but it sounded more like a question.
“Great,” I said. “Meet me at my place in an hour?” I texted her the address.
“Okay,” she said, hope chasing away some of the darkness in her eyes.
A shower and an hour later, I swung open my door to welcome an incredibly delectable Anne, dressed casually in a pair of black yoga pants and an oversized cream sweater. Fuck, I’d seen her in silk dresses and business suits and everything in between but this disarmed version of herself was my new weakness.
“It smells amazing in here,” she said, timidly entering my house like it might hold a set of traps that would send her plummeting if she stepped in the wrong spot.
“Make yourself at home,” I said, shutting the door behind her before heading back into the kitchen. “I’m just finishing up the sauce.”
“Wow,” she said, half-laughing as she took in my place. I’d saved up for five years before purchasing the home, and it was one of my most proud accomplishments. My parents had never been able to afford a two-story house before, let alone one that was situated on two acres, and I knew they’d be so proud of me if they could see me.
Did I need five bedrooms? No, not at all.
Did I love every square inch of my house? Absolutely.
Still, it was nothing compared to what Anne had grown up in or what she was accustomed to.
“Your house is so beautiful,” she said, finding me in the kitchen at the stove. “I love it.”
I grinned from ear to ear, telling my chest not to puff out. “It’s got a certain charm,” I said, and she nodded as I fixed our plates.
I carried them over to the kitchen table I had tucked against the farthest wall. I had a dining room with a larger table, but living alone, I was used to eating at the smaller one.
“Omigod,” she moaned after she took the first bite. “This is amazing.”
“It’s one of my signature dishes,” I said, shrugging as I twirled the creamy pasta around my fork. “It’s nothing like Lyla’s,” I continued. “Or anything like the Michelin star restaurants you’re used to eating from, but it’s not bad.”
“Stop it,” she chided me, scooping up another huge bite of the Cajun chicken pasta. “I love it. No one—outside of our chef or my mom—has ever cooked for me before.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said. “Not one of your…” I don’t know why I didn’t want to say exes. Maybe it was because I was worried it would hurt her or maybe it was because I didn’t want to acknowledge she’d ever been married before.
“My ex-husbands were assholes,” she said without missing a beat. “Not all of them were abusive, but not one of them actually liked me. They were there for the thrill of marrying a VanDoren. A drunken thrill ride with the prospect of a grand prize at the end of it.” She shook her head, hanging it a bit lower as she twirled more pasta around her fork. “So no,” she continued. “They weren’t leaping at the chance to cook for me, but to be fair, it’s not like I ever took the time to learn to cook for them either.”