Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I take the cue, turning slightly, and he pushes it in as I sit. My ass isn’t even firmly placed on the cushion before he’s seated again and looping his ankle around the leg of the chair to yank it closer to his. So close, there’s little arm room for me to reach for the glass of water he pours for me without my knuckles brushing along the sleeve of his shirt when he goes to grab a small pad of paper before him at the same time.
He flips it over, hiding the handwriting on the other side as he places it before me, leaving just enough space for the server to lower a plate.
I look up with a small smile, a thank-you on my tongue, but it dies when the server whips around and all but runs out of the room, three others entering as he exits.
A platter of fruit, one full of protein, and a third of nothing but carbs are lowered before us.
A steamy cappuccino is set before me, and I stare at it a moment, wondering if I should ask if I could have it prepared the way I like or if it will paint me as more of the spoiled brat he likely sees me as. Before I can decide, a small pouring cup is set beside me, a stainless-steel Whip Tech next.
I blink, my eyes moving to the server, but again, he’s already gone, having delivered exactly what I would have asked for.
I can feel the heat of Enzo’s gaze. He’s watching me, probably to see if I’ll complain, but I don’t want to look at him, so I take the whipped cream dispenser and cover the top of my espresso with it, deciding to only add a small drizzle of caramel.
The glass dish no sooner hits the table when Enzo picks it right back up, pouring the fresh, warm—homemade?—caramel over the top until it looks like it’s part of the whipped cream.
My gaze does snap up to meet his this time, and honestly, it’s so awkward and uncomfortable. Not to mention weird.
We’re technically, legally engaged, but we haven’t seen each other or spoken to one another in months, and even then, there were no conversations. We literally talked once outside of the day I approached him with my idea, if you don’t count the meetings with our lawyers to draft the contract, which I don’t. Last he heard, I changed my mind and pulled out of the deal. Then he showed up at the spa and dragged me back to his home, all to lock me in a new room for a week without a single word from him. Now here we are having breakfast together.
Like I said. Awkward.
Clearing my throat, I wrap my hands around the bubbled cappuccino cup, enjoying the way it warms my palms. “Thank you,” I say, going in for a small, sugary sip.
“Don’t thank me.” He begins to pile his plate with sausage and eggs, opting out of the fruit and waffle options. “If you want something, take it. Don’t wait for someone to give it to you.”
“Is that what you were hoping to do with my sister?”
“Is she here?” he quips easily.
My eyes narrow and he looks up, slowly chewing a piece of meat.
“Is she here?” he repeats.
“I don’t know…” I pop a blonde brow. “Is she?”
Enzo stares, blindly taking his knife in his hand. He brings it forward, probably wondering if I’ll flinch, but he wouldn’t just kill me right here, right now.
Would he?
“If I wanted your sister…” He stabs it into a triangle waffle and slams it down on my plate, and then he stabs a thicker, square one, doing the same thing. He keeps going until my plate is piled with more carbs than I could eat in a month before going back to eating his own food. “She would already be mine.”
“You’re quite confident for a man who couldn’t hold on to the fiancée he did have, aren’t you?”
His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, and his eyes slice to mine.
I don’t cower, staring right back, and his narrow the slightest bit before he tears them away, eating once again, only slower this time.
It was stupid to say. We both know if he wanted to come for me when I didn’t return, he could have successfully done so with little effort.
The fact of the matter is he simply…chose not to. The why remains to be seen.
Maybe he didn’t care to or maybe he was in no rush. I can’t pretend to guess anymore.
I take a few more small sips of my cappuccino, then using my knife as well, I slice into a piece of melon, bringing it to my lips straight out of the serving bowl. I let my teeth scrape across the metal and push away the plate in front of me, the one he took it upon himself to serve me.