Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 75861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
There almost felt like there was something heavy in the words, and the meaning behind them sent an odd shiver through my insides, a sensation I couldn't call anything other than delicious. Addictive. Something I wanted more of. Though I had no idea how to bring that about.
"Can I wash up?"
"That would be a no," he told me when I tried to take his plate. "Guests don't wash dishes."
"But you cooked. I thought cooks don't wash dishes."
"That is just some The Fast & The Furious bullshit. In my experience, the cook always cleans," he told me with a smile. "But if you want to go wash up - as in wash the day away - go ahead. Grab some shit out of my dresser if anything will fit."
Not willing to pass up on a hot shower when I still had a chill in my bones from being out in the snow, I went into his dresser, finding an old, soft army green tee and a pair of green plaid boxer shorts, taking them into the bath with me, realizing I would be forgoing panties for the first time in, well, ever, since I had pretty strong feelings about underthings.
The water took about forty-five minutes to get warm, but once it did, it was of the perfectly scalding variety, making my skin bright pink by the time I climbed out smelling like his spicy body wash and clean shampoo and conditioner.
I wiped the wet off the mirror, watching my reflection as I finger-combed my hair since all Smith owned was a comb and any woman with a thick mane of long hair knew that combs were one of life's jokes.
I looked different.
And it wasn't the makeup I had swiped off, the lack of bruises you'd so often find beneath.
There were no worry lines across my forehead, no downturn tip of my lips, no deer-in-the-headlights look to my eyes.
I looked calm.
Calm, that was such an odd concept.
I didn't think I was even capable of it. Not after a life of walking on eggshells, of overthinking my words, my actions, my own desires.
But that was what I was. Calm.
And contented.
That one was even more bizarre.
It wasn't even something I could have hoped for in my life. It wasn't even an option. My life had been about enduring. About trying to reduce the blowback of whatever ticked off Teddy outside of the house. The best I could ever dream of was not being in pain. As sad as that was. It was something a woman who was always favoring a side because of a bruised rib, icing a nose or eye from a punch, cringing when she went down from a literal ass-whipping could desire for herself. A full day, week, maybe - in the biggest of pipe dreams - a whole month of no pain.
But pain was over.
Pain in my future would be unexpected, not a daily reality.
And without having to worry about every little thing I said, did, wore, ate, watched, read, thought... I felt a deep contentedness starting to take root, become my new normal.
It was all over, that old life.
I had the chance to be the woman I never got to be before, the one I really was inside. I could start again. I could do, wear, eat, watch, read, think, and feel whatever I wanted to.
I was free.
On that thought - and the swelling inside accompanying it - I made my way back out of the bathroom, hearing Smith move around in the kitchen. "Go on and head to bed. I'm gonna bring you in some tea and get the fire started for you."
Standing in the hall where he couldn't see me, my hand rose, pressed into my heart where an odd fluttering had started.
Why?
I wasn't sure per se.
Because he made me tea? Was going to make sure I was warm?
I guess... yes.
It was that.
He was taking care of me.
And that was another first for me.
I turned, making my way back to the chilly bedroom, climbing under the sheets that smelled like him, and I had to actively hold myself back from lowering down, rolling onto my belly, and taking a deep breath of his pillow, reminding myself that he could walk in on me doing it.
Not a minute later, he was in the doorway, pausing, his gaze moving over me, something in his ever-changing eyes I couldn't quite read.
"Sorry about the chill," he said, seeming like he needed to distract himself as he put the mug down on the nightstand on a little coaster that looked like a sliver of a log with the bark still intact, all shiny with some kind of epoxy. "The fire will warm it up fast," he added.
"It's okay. It's warm under the blankets," I told him because it was true. But I was getting the odd idea that I was warm not because of the hot shower or the thick bedclothes, but because of something in the air right then, something sparking and flickering much like the fire he was starting.