Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
There’s no hiding the surprise in my tone. “You want me to eat inside your home?”
“Yeah.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“At the same…,” bewilderment stutters my speech, “at the same fucking table?”
“That is what those words mean.” Her grin is teasing. “And words matter. Trust me. I’m a librarian. I know these things.”
Okay, so wrong about the teacher shit. Sort of. If she is a librarian for kids, then that’s really just splitting hairs.
She offers me another giggle, an over dramatic wink, and bounces away the way she came.
Why the fuck do I suddenly feel way in over my head?
It doesn’t take long to unplug the pump or make the bed. Finding my way to the kitchen, on the other hand, feels as though two tours of duty are complete before I finally arrive to find her placing down plates on opposite sides of an island that doubles as a table.
I never understood the point of places this fucking big. Not sure I ever will.
My feet plant me a safe distance from where the food is being served. From her. “Where do you want me?”
While the question isn’t meant to sound sexual, the flushness her face suddenly grows indicates she wishes it was.
Which makes two of us.
Even if it shouldn’t.
Jaye steals a small moment to compose herself prior to pointing to the space closest to me. “There’s fine.”
I nod in understanding of her order and slide myself onto the cushioned white stool. Now faced with the choice to focus my gaze at her as she fills her glass of wine or let my eyes wander around the wide-open space, I struggle to make the right call.
Do I want to hungrily stare at the way her middle finger slides into her mouth to suck off the drop of wine it caught?
Fuck yes.
Is it the respectful or gentlemanly thing to do?
Absolutely not.
See. You don’t have tell me all the obvious shit.
I force my glare to admire the modern décor, the stainless steel appliances, and the strikingly strange fact the entire scene looks like something a person would stage for an open house showing.
Not live in.
What’s that about?
“Feel free to eat as much or as little as you want,” Jaye sweetly hums at the same time she slides onto the stool opposite of me. “It’s not my favorite brand, but it’s the one I buy.”
“Why do you buy it if it’s not your favorite?”
“Uh…” she innocently begins to contemplate an answer given the nature her face is scrunching.
“Is it because it’s the most cost efficient?”
“Oh, definitely not.”
“Is it because it’s the one most often on sale?”
“Almost never.”
“Then why?”
“Um…,” a small, absentminded shrug presents itself, “Chris liked organic food, and this one fits the bill.”
“I see.” I do my best to grin rather than grimace and swallow the judgments jumping around on my tongue. “Thank you for dinner, Jaye.” She begins to smile again pushing me to encourage it to resume to the full-fledged one it was before I started asking too many questions. “And thank you for the clothes. And the toothbrush. And the hot shower. And the warm place to sleep tonight. And um…rescuing me from the cops.” Gratitude nudges me to add another line. “Your actual friends are lucky to have you watching their six, and I hope they fucking know that.”
“I don’t…uh…I don’t have friends.”
The retort escapes without my consent. “Is that what you want me to be?”
Mixed responses appear in her expression yet not a single one leaves her lips.
Of course not. This is all some charity case bullshit. I should’ve just let them haul my ass off to a cell again. It would’ve given me a warm place to sleep with a clear fucking conscience.
Instead of pressuring her for answers, I merely nod, lift my fork, and dig into the steaming pile of pasta waiting to be devoured. The first bite is by far the most incredible thing I’ve tasted in probably the last four years. And the second is just as incredible as the first spurring me to shovel the shit into my face by the largest forkfuls possible.
Logic doesn’t hesitate to remind me pacing is everything but the fear of not knowing the next time I’ll have a warm meal annihilates it.
Has me shoving hunks of bread back.
Popping cherry tomatoes from the side salad one right after another – practically not chewing, just swallowing.
Hell, it isn’t until I look up to grab my bottle of water that I realize what an uncivilized savage I must appear to be.
I prepare to apologize for my grotesque behavior, to offer to eat in the garage out of sight, to even just wait until she’s finished to keep going when she snickers. “Gah, it’s like the scene from Beauty & The Beast where he has porridge all over his face.”
Her laughter prompts my own, and I reach for my nearby napkin. “Is it really that bad?”