Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“It’s all about the knife,” she says, spinning around to snag one from the knife block, then wielding the sharp blade.
“Got it. Good knives rule.”
“And a little seasoning goes a long way,” she adds as she sets the asparagus on the cutting board and chops a few stalks. But she stops mid slice. “Wait. You were raised by a single mom. She never taught you to cook?”
I wag a finger. “Brooke. Did you just assume all single moms cook?”
She holds up a down, boy hand. “No. I make no assumptions. But your mom raised a smart, thoughtful man, who holds doors for women and calls when he says he will, so I deduce she taught you life skills, like laundry and how to balance a bank account,” she says, returning to her chopping.
I waggle my fingers toward the knife. “My turn. I learn by doing.”
She hands me the utensil.
I slide in next to her and take over chopping the asparagus. “Mom did teach me. Or rather, she tried to teach me, but I was a sports-obsessed, high-energy kid, so guess what happened at dinnertime?”
“She sent you out to race around the block?” she asks as she turns on the stove, drizzles some olive oil in the pan.
“Welcome to my childhood. I was like a dog who needed to be run.” I finish the asparagus, then nod toward the frying pan. “Just drop it in?”
“You got it, handsome.” She takes over, sautéing the asparagus with some pre-cut tofu. “Why don’t you grab some pepper and salt? Top cabinet to the right.”
“Just pepper and salt?” I ask as I comply.
“Sometimes simple is best.”
“Like hanging out here in your house with you,” I say, and wow. I sound like a lust-struck fool.
But I don’t mind.
Ten minutes later, we finish cooking, and together we plate the food, grab some drinks, then sit at her counter.
She hands me a bottle of pale ale, then pours herself some chardonnay. “To trouble,” she says, raising the glass to toast. “Our parallel universe full of good, dirty trouble.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, my chest tingling at those words. After our toast, I take a bite and moan. “Damn, I’m a good cook.”
She laughs. “It’s all you, Drew.”
“Maybe I had a little help,” I concede. “Now, tell me more about you and Cara.”
“Because Patrick is sweet on her?”
I scoff. “I’m not his keeper. He can be sweet on whoever he wants. I want to know more about her because”—I stop, lean closer, and dust a kiss to her cheek—“I’m into her sister. I want to know more about the important people in your life.”
She dips her face, then purses her lips like she’s hiding a smile. As we eat, she tells me more about their antics growing up. She asks about my sisters and I chat about them.
Then, I ask if she’s liking her new job. “Is the promotion what you want?”
“It is. I love it. Checking out contracts, looking for loopholes and technicalities. It’s just my speed.”
“That’s so very you,” I say.
“It is. I’m still a little shocked I got the job,” she says.
“I’m not. You’re brilliant,” I say.
She blushes. “I just mean because it’s such a good gig. Working for Carlisle Enterprises has always been a bit of a dream. It’s sort of the perfect amount of lawyering for me. No courtrooms,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Not your style?”
“No way. I like the details of law, the puzzle of law, but I don’t want to go fight or roll the dice,” she says.
Another thirty minutes of talk passes in a flash as we get to know each other and continues as we’re cleaning up. How is this only our second night together when we already have such a natural rhythm and flow?
But then, it’s not entirely our second night. We spent the meet-and-greet together—chastely—and then walked around together. We’ve texted for weeks.
But every time I see her, one moment seems to spill into the next. She’s got to be feeling the same pull, despite the risks.
“By the way,” I say, “you said earlier that I was a man of his word. I’m glad you’re not holding that ghosting against past-me anymore,” I say as I close the dishwasher.
“Drew,” she says, sounding as if she’s coming clean about something. “Some of my emotions that night weren’t even because of you,” she says, then blows out a breath. “My ex cheated on me with many women. He even messaged me the day I met you, so that was in my head. So when I thought I hadn’t heard from you…it all seemed too good to be true.”
My heart hurts for her, but I also want to give a piece of my mind to the dumb shit who cheated on her. “He didn’t deserve you,” I bite out. “He doesn’t deserve anyone.”