Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16015 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 80(@200wpm)___ 64(@250wpm)___ 53(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16015 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 80(@200wpm)___ 64(@250wpm)___ 53(@300wpm)
“Steak,” she finally said. “He’s never said if something is his favorite, but he eats steak like it’s his own personal brand of crack.”
I snickered. I wasn’t surprised. That was such a man thing. “Okay, thank you. I need to run to the grocery store. Any idea for a side?”
“Mashed potatoes with gravy,” she told me without hesitation. “All of the guys fucking go crazy for it. Seb likes extra gravy. He puts it on his steak, too.”
I scrunched up my nose in disgust. “That might be a deal breaker for us. He’s ruining a perfectly good steak.” But I was only teasing. I’d deal with all of his weird quirks just to have him as mine.
Cecily laughed. “Like that man will ever let you walk away, Athena.” Robin began to cry. “Crap. I need to go. Call me if you need anything else.”
The call disconnected, and I quickly got dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt before sliding my feet into flip-flops. Hopefully, I could get what I needed and have dinner done by the time he got here.
Fingers crossed.
Seb looked tired as hell when he walked through the front door. I watched as he braced one arm on the wall and toed off his boots with a grunt, a grimace pulling at his face. Making a mental note to soak in a hot bubble bath with him later to help relax his muscles, I walked over to him, sliding between him and the wall to softly kiss him in greeting.
“Hey, baby,” he rumbled, sliding his arms around me after he got off his other boot. “Something smells fucking delicious.”
“Come on. Table is set,” I told him, grabbing one of his hands in mine and leading him to my small dining room. He parted from me in the kitchen and washed his hands before following me the rest of the way to the dining room table.
A small smile tilted his lips as he took a seat at my small, round table, already picking up his fork and knife. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and popped the top off before setting it in front of him. He squeezed my thigh in thanks, and a shiver slid down my spine.
I couldn’t get enough of him touching me.
Once I took my seat next to him, we dug in, eating in comfortable silence, and just like Cecily warned me, he smothered everything in gravy.
I grimaced. “We might need to talk about you putting gravy on a damn good steak.”
His lips quirked in amusement, but he didn’t say anything. I hadn’t expected him to. I just loved to see his facial expressions change. They expressed more to me than anything he said ever could have.
“We probably need to talk,” he grumbled as we stood at the sink washing dishes. He washed them while I dried and put them away. It was so domestic that every time he looked up and watched what I was doing, my heart wrenched in my chest. Because this spoke volumes about what he wanted with me, even if he didn’t realize it.
“Talk?” I questioned. God, I wanted to. I wanted to know why he felt like he had to run, but I also didn’t want to push him too much. We were still so new, and I was doing my best to respect that. Seb wasn’t the type of man to trust easily.
He nodded. “You deserve an explanation.”
I gripped his wrist. He paused in washing the last plate, turning his head to look at me. His gunmetal gray eyes met mine, full of fear and worry. I swallowed thickly, hating that look in his eyes. “Seb, baby, you don’t owe me anything.”
He shook his head. “I do if I want this to work, baby girl,” he said quietly. My heart warmed at his confession. He really wanted this. With me. “Let’s get this finished and then sit down.”
Sighing, I nodded, and once he rinsed the last plate, I dried it and put it away before following him into the living room. I moved to sit beside him, but he dragged me onto his lap, banding an arm around my waist. His other hand gripped my outer thigh, trapping me there, though I certainly didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“My dad was an asshole,” he said quietly, leaning his head back on the couch to stare up at the ceiling. His voice sounded a little detached, and my heart hurt for him. A person only got that good at dissociating when their trauma was heavy.
I began tracing small designs on the inside of his arms. “He beat the shit out of my mom a lot,” he continued. “I remember a few times, she ended up in the hospital, but she would never press charges, so nothing would happen.” His fingers tightened on my thigh before he forced them to loosen—the only sign that this story bothered him. “When I was seven, she left. I woke up, and she was just gone. All of her things were packed. She left me a note, apologizing, but it did nothing but make me bitter toward her.”