Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Sure, inmate 2267. Not only is that a myth, but you can actually kill someone that way.”
“Really? Bummer,” Amber adds with a sigh.
My stomach gets a little queasy and I know I’ve officially crossed the line. There is such a thing as too much B&J ice cream. “Ambs, gotta go, dairy emergency.”
After hanging up, I make my way down to the kitchen to put the rest of the ice cream back in the freezer. All I’m wearing is my thin lounge pants and a white tank top with no bra but it’s past eleven and Duck Dynasty usually retires to his room around eight thirty. On Friday night, I found him out front waiting for me. He drove me in––we said nothing. He drove me home––we said nothing. I’ve come to accept that arguing with him is pointless because in the end he always does what he wants anyway.
As I pass by Sam’s room, I peek in and find him sleeping soundly. Every time he gets ready for bed, something in his expression tells me that wasn’t always the case, that he’s had too many sleepless nights for a boy his age, and I can’t help but be mad at his mother. Where his father is, is a mystery I have yet to solve.
I continue down the stairs and into the spacious and well laid out kitchen. It’s a real chef’s kitchen and my favorite part of the house. Ivory custom cabinetry, calacatta oro marble countertop. There’s a massive island in the middle with a sink and cooktop on one side, opposite the gas stove, and seats up to four people on the other. Did I mention how much I love the kitchen?
I’m already well inside, practically standing next to the island, when I notice that the door of the SubZero refrigerator is wide open and one tall man is standing behind it.
My footsteps come to a screeching halt. Very quietly and very, very slowly, I start…retracing…my steps, backing out the same way I entered. I reeeeally don’t want to be in the same room with him if I can help it. Everything about him makes me uncomfortable. From the pale emotionless stare he usually directs at me, to his gruff demeanor. All of it makes me self-conscious. And quite frankly I haven’t gotten over the whole cow thing yet. I don’t know why it bothers me, why I give a shit what he thinks, but it does. Which aggravates me to no end.
Just a few more steps and I’m safe. All of a sudden, the door closes and I see he’s holding the left over pasta primavera I made for dinner.
Wait a cotton pickin’ minute…
He shovels a fork full of cold pasta, my pasta, into his mouth and closes his eyes. The look on his face is positively orgasmic. I don’t know what’s more fascinating, the fact that the man I’ve come to know as having only a single emotion, anger, or none at all looks like he’s high off of a dish of cold pasta, or that I just caught him cheating on the “anti-inflammation” diet when I’ve seen him openly turn up his nose at the food I cook as if somebody took a shit and forgot to flush. Then I remember all the food I’ve been missing––the food I thought he had thrown out because the smell bothered him.
His whole body stiffens with awareness. And all at once it dawns on me that he’s only wearing a pair of threadbare, stretched out boxer briefs.
Dear God, please don’t let his junk be hanging out. I’ll be good, I promise.
He turns slowly to face me, blinks twice, and sighs. It’s the most defeated, pathetic sigh I’ve ever heard in my life and I have to curl my lips between my teeth not to burst out in laughter. His eyes flicker down to my braless tank top and my amusement fades, drops right off my face. I can only imagine what he’s thinking––cow. I’m almost one hundred percent certain he dates women that peel the skin off their grapes and measure their protein intake with a thimble. Needles rake up my neck as I see my body from his judgy perspective. His body, by the way, is frigging perfect––according to anyone’s definition.
Watching me intently, he puts the bowl down on the counter. “Go ahead.”
Huh? Did I miss something? “Excuse me?”
“Your victory dance. You caught me.”
I realize then that he’s truly embarrassed, and as sweet as revenge sounds right about now, being a jerk doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to him. I will only feel worse afterward.
Moving very quickly, I walk by him and put the ice cream back in the freezer. I don’t need to look to know his eyes are glued on me; I can feel them giving me a third degree burn.