Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
He drained his mug and stood. “What are your plans this morning?”
“I need to make a grocery list, go shopping, and figure out Mrs. Armstrong’s schedule.”
“Marcus will drive you to the grocery store.”
I frowned. “Is that necessary? I know how to drive, and I can read a map.”
“It is necessary.”
“Mrs. Armstrong went to the store on her own. It seems a waste of Marcus’s time to accompany me shopping. I’m sure he has more important things to take care of for you.”
He leaned on the counter, boxing me in. His voice was low, his gaze fierce, the boss gone and my husband firmly in my face. “Mrs. Armstrong is not my wife. There is nothing more important than your safety. Nothing. Marcus accompanies you, or you don’t go. Am I clear?”
“Yes.”
His kiss was hard. “Good.”
For a moment, he stared at me, his fingers on my cheek. Then his mask came down, and he straightened and left the kitchen.
I tidied up, checked the contents of the cupboards, fridge, and freezer, then made my list. Mrs. Armstrong kept the pantry well stocked, but there were a few things I wanted to add. It would take me a while to figure out the flow of the kitchen, but I was looking forward to it. My mom had died when I was young, and my dad had been hopeless when it came to cooking. I’d taken over and always enjoyed cooking and baking. I found it relaxing, and I was good at it. It was the only thing Blaine didn’t criticize about me.
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to spare him another thought. Ever. He didn’t deserve my thoughts or sympathy.
Instead, I racked my brain to think of the recipe for my double chocolate brownie cookies. Matteo would love them. I looked over to the desk by the window and the old laptop sitting on it. Sitting down, I opened the lid and stared at the screen. Of course it needed a username and password. I knew neither. I hadn’t asked Matteo for internet access, the thought never crossing my mind with everything else. I began to close the lid, accidentally pushing the laptop away, and I noticed a small piece of paper under the laptop. Curious, I pulled it out, grinning at what I found.
Camparikitchen/Pastanoodles123 was written in old-fashioned cursive, a bold underline under the C and P to remind herself to capitalize the letters, no doubt. I recognized Mrs. Armstrong’s writing. I opened up the laptop again and tried the information, smiling in delight when it worked. Remembering the website I liked, I typed in the address, and while I waited for it to do its thing, I searched for another piece of paper in the drawer. Finally, the recipe came up, and I scribbled it down, adding a couple more items to my list.
Marcus came into the kitchen and watched me for a moment. “Found Mrs. Armstrong’s hidden password?” he asked, surprising me by speaking.
“Yes. I needed to look at a recipe I wanted to make later on a site I used to use all the time.”
He furrowed his brow.
“I didn’t try to access my old account. I went in as a guest. I have no email to set up a new one.” I couldn’t help my sigh. “Shame. I had so many good recipes in that old account.”
“What was your old account listed under?”
“Baker2.0 at hotmail,” I said. “I loved collecting cookie recipes.”
His face cleared. “Are you ready to go then, Mrs. Campari?”
I hesitated, then picked up my purse. “I need to see Matteo before I leave.”
He nodded, indicating to follow him. At the door of Matteo’s office on the other side of the house, he knocked and waited until Matteo shouted out for him to enter.
“Mrs. Campari wishes a moment.”
“Of course. Give us the room.”
I slipped inside, and Marcus shut the door behind me. Matteo sat at his huge desk, computers and files surrounding him. He already looked exhausted. However, he smiled at me, his expression welcoming.
“Hello, my wife.”
I approached the desk, unsure how to ask my question.
“Once again, your possessions are suffering from your nerves,” he observed.
I looked down at my purse. I was wringing the handle.
He stood and rounded the desk, leaning on it, then opening his arms. “Come to me.”
I stepped forward, and he embraced me, holding me tight. “What is it, Piccolina?”
“I-I’m not sure how to pay for the groceries, and I have no money…”
“Evie, I apologize.” He dropped a kiss on my head and lifted my chin. “I meant to discuss that with you last evening, but I was, ah, distracted.” He nipped the end of my nose playfully, then went back to his desk and rummaged in the top drawer. He pulled out an envelope.
“Here are your new bank cards. Your password is the date of our marriage.” He stated the numbers slowly. “There is a Visa card, a debit card, and your account will be replenished as needed.” He pulled a thick envelope from another drawer and withdrew some bills, offering them to me. “Here’s five hundred dollars.”