Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
I turn back to the counter behind me and find that I’m behind by three pies. I don’t answer him; I just get back to work. I wonder if I should ask my sisters’ boyfriends if they would investigate me if Antonio suddenly turned up missing. Seriously. One day, I might just kill him.
“I can finish that up for you,” Antonio says three hours later.
I lift my eyes from the table I’m wiping down to look at him.
“I got it.” I go back to wiping and yawn; the adrenaline I felt earlier today is long gone, and exhaustion has firmly taken its place.
“You’re tired. Go rest in the office until I finish up; then I’ll walk you home,” he says as he walks across the now-closed shop toward me. Marco and Hector both left about an hour ago because they will both be coming back around eleven in the morning to open up and get things ready for lunch. Peggy left when her husband did, after cleaning up the kitchen and putting things away. I decided to stay since I can sleep in tomorrow morning before I have to start running dresses around the city.
“I’m almost done, and I don’t need you to walk me home.” I move to another table, wipe down the chairs and the top of the table, and straighten the shakers and the napkin holder.
“And I can finish up,” he tells me, trying to take the rag from my grasp. I pull it from his hold with a hard tug.
“Yeah, and so can I.” I glare at him before moving around him to another table.
“I’m trying to be nice to you.”
“Nice? You’re never nice to me. Just so you know, if you are trying to be nice, you could do it by just saying thank you.”
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
Seriously?
I wonder how much time you get for committing murder if you’ve actually spent time plotting someone’s death beforehand.
“You’re right. You didn’t ask for my help,” I agree. “But I’m here because I like this place and I love your parents.” I lock eyes with his and tip my head to the side. “Why are you so miserable all the time?”
“I’m not.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
I try not to notice how his muscles flex or how his shirt gets snug against his pecs and abs when they do.
Annoyed with myself for finding him attractive when he’s such a jerk, I shake my head. “You are.”
“I’m not miserable.” He scowls.
I roll my eyes and move to another table. “Sure you’re not.” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Even now, you’re scowling.” I look down and start cleaning another table.
“I don’t scowl,” he denies.
I look up at him and roll my eyes again when I see that he is indeed still scowling.
“Sure you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Whatever. This conversation is completely pointless,” I say, looking away from him. “Don’t you have something to do?”
I look up when he doesn’t leave. When my eyes meet his, the air around us seems to shift. I see something in his gaze that makes my stomach muscles clench and unclench.
I don’t know how long we stare at each other, but it feels like forever before he clears his throat and finally looks away.
“I’m gonna finish shutting everything down.”
“Right.”
I watch him go, wondering what the hell that was about. I finish cleaning the tables, then do a quick sweep of the floors. Around eleven, I walk back to the office. A few seconds later, he comes in behind me. Deciding not to bother with changing back into the shirt I wore here, I fold it neatly and put it in my purse. Then I put on my coat, hat, and gloves. When I turn around, I see he’s put on a black down jacket and a beanie. I don’t want to think he looks good wearing a beanie, but he does. It makes his already-strong cheekbones seem stronger, his eyes seem darker, and him seem overall more mysterious. Pushing those stupid thoughts away, I leave him in the office and head for the front door.
As I walk away, I hear him coming up behind me.
“Have a good night,” I murmur without looking back.
I stop when I feel his hand wrap around my wrist, between my coat sleeve and glove. A shot of what can only be described as electricity shoots through my system at his touch, charging every cell in my body. It startles me.
“I’m gonna walk you home,” he says.
I turn to look up at him. “I’m fine walking alone.” I attempt to pull away from his grasp, but his fingers only seem to tighten.
“I’m gonna walk you home,” he repeats more firmly.
I fight back a sigh of frustration. If he wasn’t such a jerk, I would think his worrying about me making it home safely was sweet. Unfortunately, he’s proved to be mostly a jerk.