Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70370 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70370 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
I stopped. “What?”
He looked up, his eyes no longer anxious. They were dark. Heated. A shiver ran through me at the barely held passion I could see in them. But his voice was mild as he spoke. “You are…delightful in my clothes.” Then he indicated the high counter. “Sit and let me feed you.”
It was the accent. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for why so many of the things he said to me sounded so intimate. Normally, he spoke carefully, choosing his words and enunciating them deliberately, his accent controlled. But when we were alone, or he was upset, angry, or in the moment, his control slipped and his accent came out stronger. I loved hearing it, but I never told him that.
He slid a bowl in front of me, and I inhaled deeply.
“Oh, I love your mushroom soup.”
He grinned and placed a bowl for himself beside me. We ate in silence for a few moments. The dense rye bread was fresh and speckled with caraway seeds. The mushroom soup didn’t taste like the kind that came from a can. It was thick, rich with spices, and laden with mushrooms. I loved it when he made it. He had told me in Romania that soup was very popular, and although I had tasted various kinds, this one was my favorite.
I eyed him surreptitiously. I loved watching him eat. His white teeth tore through the bread as if it had somehow insulted him. He chewed slowly, ate his soup carefully, his manners impeccable, and so in contrast with his appetite. It was voracious. I had to stop the thoughts that kept repeating in my head, wondering if all his appetites were the same.
He finished his bowl and stood, rounding the counter. He turned to the stove, opening the door and sliding out dishes. I finished my own soup, knowing not to interfere. Egan could cook like a dream. Romanian, Italian, Chinese, even simple, regular everyday things like burgers—any sort of cuisine. My favorites, though, were his Romanian dishes. I loved them. I was lucky if I boiled water correctly. I lived on salads, precooked chicken from the grocery store, or whatever hot foods the deli had ready. I could make toast and pancakes. Heat up something. That was all.
Egan held out his hand, and I gave him my empty bowl. He slid a plate in front of me. “Eat, iubirea mea.”
I stared at the full plate. Cabbage rolls, potato salad, and some sort of sausage-looking meat filled the plate. He’d made me the cabbage rolls before and the delicious Romanian potato salad, and I loved them both, but I had never seen the meat dish.
He sat beside me with a frown.
“You not like dinner?”
“No, I love it. But what is the meat?”
“Mici,” he said. “Beef, pork, spices. Delicious. Try it.”
I took a bite and shut my eyes at the flavor. “So delicious,” I praised him.
He nodded, looking pleased. He pushed a dip my way. “We usually eat it with mustard, but I like it with this.”
I dipped the meat in a creamy dill sauce. “Wow. Is that Romanian too?” I asked, dipping another piece.
“No,” he said with a laugh. “That’s Egan.”
I took another bite of the meal, and Egan watched me eat, leaning close to wipe a bit of dip off the corner of my mouth. I watched, fascinated, as he slipped his thumb into his mouth, licking off the sauce. He kept his gaze locked on mine, and I had to drop my eyes as a surge of heat went through me.
He grinned at my reaction and picked up his fork.
I had to be more tired than I thought. My reactions to him were all over the map tonight.
I lowered my head and concentrated on my meal.
EGAN
My God, she was beautiful. Sitting at my counter, eating my food, wearing my clothes. I wanted this every day. I wanted her to want that. But I couldn’t seem to break through her walls. I saw how she watched me. The flickers of interest. Even the flashes of lust. But she refused to act on it. I had to figure out how to break through her resistance.
She moaned around a mouthful of cabbage rolls. I made all her favorites. I kept cabbage rolls in the freezer, always ready to heat up for her. The potato salad I made earlier, as well as the soup and mici. She loved the flavors of the olives, pickles, and tang of the dressing on the salad. Very different from the mayonnaise-based ones I had eaten here. She loved everything I cooked for her.
I wanted her to allow me to cook for her every day.
With a sigh, she laid down her fork. “Egan, that was incredible.”
“More?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’m as stuffed as your cabbage rolls.”