Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“So sunrise is sleeping in for you?” he asks with a chuckle.
“When your bakery opens at 6 a.m., you want to have bagels, scones, croissants and muffins ready, so I have to be there early. I have a part-timer that opens for me on Mondays and Tuesdays, but I still need to be there because she can’t do it alone. Sometimes I can actually take a whole Monday off, but I still usually end up doing paperwork or trying out new recipes.”
He nods.
“I understand how that goes. Entrepreneurship is tough, but you seem to be handling it okay. Should we walk and talk so I can show you the rest of the place? I think you’ll like the kitchen.”
“Like” the kitchen is an understatement. The cabinets are a little dark for my taste as they’re sleek black lacquer, but the appliances are top of the line. There’s a six burner gas stove, full size double ovens, a pizza oven, a walk-in, climate controlled wine closet, and a massive refrigerator.
“Do you do a lot of entertaining? This kitchen is perfect for catering parties.”
He shakes his head ruefully.
“Not really. I’ve had a few parties and it’s true, the caterers do love to use this space. But I love to play around in here. Maybe you can bake me something in here sometime?”
“Are you inviting me back already?” I ask with an arch look.
His eyes gleam.
“Maybe I don’t intend to let you leave.”
I laugh.
“You wouldn’t let my cat starve.”
“No, I’d have someone go gather him up.”
“Speaking of cats, where is the goddess of the harvest?”
He chuckles.
“Probably either in my bedroom or the library. Those are her favorite places. Can I get you a glass of wine? I’m having dinner delivered at 6:30, if that’s ok with you? I just ordered from one of my restaurants.”
I smile.
“I’d love a glass of wine. And I promise not to trip over any picnic baskets.”
Peter’s laugh is completely warm and genuine. He makes quick work of opening a bottle of Italian Merlot. My fingers brush against his as I take the glass from him and his hand shoots back into his pocket. He seems genuinely glad to have me here, but also seems like he’s trying not to touch me. Maybe he’s afraid of catching coronavirus from me.
We continue the tour. There’s a formal dining room, and then another sitting room which seems to be less formal than the first living room that we passed through. There’s a bar in one corner, a gigantic big screen TV, and the furniture is overstuffed and comfy looking. There’s a private gym behind a set of closed doors that he throws open, and finally a mini-theater that Peter calls the screening room down the hall.
“Why do you have a huge TV in your entertainment room, and then this movie screening room too?”
He chuckles.
“Well, that TV is more for sports, or news, or cooking shows. The screening room is for movies: scary ones that need to be watched in the dark or action movies whose sound and special effects deserve the respect of a theater. I’m a movie buff.”
We’ve come around full circle back to the formal living room and I haven’t seen the library or any bedrooms.
“I thought you had a library?” I ask.
“Right this way. It’s on the second floor.”
“There’s a second floor?” I gasp in awe.
Peter just smiles and leads me up the stairs. We pass a closed door he says is his office. We briefly stroll by two immaculate bedrooms, both of which appear larger than my entire studio apartment.
When we finally reach the library, I gasp because books go from floor to ceiling. There’s a sliding ladder to reach the volumes on the top shelves, and the books all look like antiques with their red and green leather covers.
“I feel like Belle in Beauty and the Beast. She was always my favorite princess. She was smart, loved to read, and she looked beyond someone’s appearance to fall in love with her hero,” I remark.
“Fairy tales and other fantasy would be on that wall,” Peter tells me pointing to his left. “Classics are there and non-fiction there.”
I pull a copy of The Great Gatsby off the classics shelf and sit on a cognac-colored leather couch with the book and my glass of wine.
“That’s one of my favorite books,” he says a little wistfully. “I feel a little like Jay Gatsby sometimes because it’s hard to believe this wealth is all mine. I know it’s weird to say, but I still feel like a fraud on occasion.”
Peter looks vulnerable right now and I feel that connection between us again.
“I’m sure that’s not true. Come sit with me here,” I invite.
He grins.
“I need to get you some more wine,” he says before disappearing into the hallway again.
He comes back, bottle in hand, and fills my glass only to retreat to the other side of the room. Maybe he’s changed his mind about inviting me here. I’m beginning to feel like a leper.