Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
It was back in college. I was dating some loser guy, or at least he wasn’t a loser at the time but it turned out I was ignoring a whole parade’s worth of red flags. I’ll never forget the way he sat down, took a single bite, made a face, and pushed the plate away. It’s okay, babe, you tried. We can order in. I never cooked for anyone else after that prick decided to defecate all over my hard work. And in my defense, I was nineteen years old and trying to make a decent meal in a dorm kitchen which wasn’t exactly an easy feat.
Maybe the sex yesterday knocked something loose in my skull. I didn’t plan on inviting him into my little library then letting him bang me up against my new Ikea shelves, but he kept giving me these little looks—like he was appreciating everything I had to offer, and I can totally understand why, I look stunning when I’m all gross and sweaty from building stuff—and those stares lit a fire in my core.
And I mean, it’s hard to pretend like I’m not attracted to the guy. Davide’s absolutely ripped—he’s built like a Greek deity, except the sort of god all the other gods are jealous of. Broad shoulders, muscular chest, ripped and veiny forearms—the sort of forearms I could lick. I even like his sense of style. Not flashy, not over the top, no gold chains or jewelry. He keeps his hair simple and natural, and his suits are expertly tailored but also understated. There’s a darkness inside of him and a whole host of issues he keeps buried deep down—
And for some reason, I’m attracted to all those ugly little flaws.
Because I’m ugly and flawed too, and he doesn’t seem to mind.
Instead of punishing me for being a total prick to him, he went ahead and built me walls.
I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated walls so much in my life.
Davide comes home as I’m finishing up. He pauses just inside and smells the air before staring at me with unabashed hunger, but I’m pretty sure he wants to taste me and not my cooking.
Too bad he’ll have to wait.
“I wanted to do something nice for you,” I explain before he can ask. I usher him to the kitchen table and place a glass of wine at his elbow. “Don’t expect this shit all the time, got it?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, looking amused and mystified.
“I’m giving the domestic thing a try.” I walk over to the pantry and open it to show him all the groceries I bought earlier. “You know, turning this barren wasteland into something livable.” Even the kitchen’s got real food inside of it now.
“I’m impressed,” he says, leaning back in his seat and swirling his wine. “I didn’t think you’d be the kind of girl to cook for her man.”
I grimace as I start plating. “I’m a strong, independent woman, okay? And I couldn’t think of something else to do for you. Construction isn’t my thing.”
I bring over dinner and put it down in front of him. Before I can pull away, he grabs my hand and holds me at his side, staring up at me with a strange look on his face.
“This is good,” he says very low and softly. “It’s very good.”
“Yeah, okay, you weirdo,” I say, pulling away so I can hide how much that stupid little compliment made me glow. “Just eat your food.”
He digs in, and I half expect him to shove it away in disgust, but he seems to genuinely enjoy himself. There’s a simple pleasure to cooking for someone and watching them get pleasure from something you made, and I keep glancing up between bites just to make sure he’s still eating.
“It’s delicious, dolcezza. I really mean that. You’re a very good cook.”
“Thank you.” I’m blushing like an idiot all because the guy likes my freaking chicken. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m going to get all horny ironing his shirts next. “Like I said, don’t expect this ever again.”
He shakes his head, grinning, and the conversation moves on. He teases me over how many books I have in the library—the shelves are packed already—and we discuss what I’ll do with the other rooms. I haven’t decided yet but I like bouncing ideas off him and seeing how he reacts. Music room horrifies him, and I think he’d lock me in the basement if I tried to keep reptiles in his house, but he’s into an art studio or a small theater.
“We could turn it into a playroom,” he suggests casually, his plate cleared and his wine glass refilled.
“Yeah, no, thanks though. I’m not in a rush to pump out your kids.”
“I didn’t mean for children.” He leans back with that delicious, insanely annoying smirk of his. “A swing, some padded furniture, a locker for whips, chains, lubricants—”