Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I pull the bag of oats from the shelf and scan what else I can reach. Ahh, yes, chickpea flour. The bell over the door rings and catches Zach’s attention. I use the opportunity to take him in from this angle. His hair is all mussed and somehow his arms look even more muscular from up here. They’re not cover-yourself-in-fake-tan-and-flex-for-the-cameras big, but they’re I’m-just-a-guy-who-can-chop-wood-and-throw-you-over-my-shoulder big. And I’m here for it.
“You having fun up there?” he asks, lifting his chin. It’s clear by the amusement in his eyes that he knows that I’ve been checking him out.
I laugh. There’s no point in denying it. “Just appreciating the view.”
“Oh, you’re going to see plenty of it over the next few days.”
A heavy ache throbs between my thighs. I’m not sure if his comment was meant to come across as loaded as it does, but either way, I’m happy to take as much as I can get.
“What about apple pie?” he suggests as I get down from the ladder. “As long as the pastry is premade, it’s something I can actually make.”
“You can?” I ask. “They teach that at medical school?”
He lets out a half laugh on his exhale. “Cove family med school. My mum is an excellent cook and there’s always an apple pie in the process of being made.”
“There’s nothing better than homemade apple pie. Let’s see if they have any cooking apples. I can always make the pastry.” Fuses of excitement light in my chest. Snowed in with a whole lot of cooking ingredients might be one of the best things that has ever happened to me.
“This is better than Christmas for you, isn’t it?” he asks as he follows me farther down the small aisle. “I’ve never seen you this excited.”
“If I’m going to be finicky, I would have liked time to prepare some menus and maybe access to some—oh, here’s the herbs and spices.” Despite its small size, this shop has a remarkable range of ingredients.
“You know what I like with my apple pie?” He steps closer, snaking his arm around me, pulling me to him and closing the gap between us. “Cinnamon.” He presses a kiss to my cheekbone and then releases me, but my legs have turned to jelly and I stumble back a few steps.
“Cinnamon,” I say, trying to regain my balance. “Cinnamon.” I trail my fingers over the jars of spices until I find what he wants. Apparently cinnamon does it for Zach. I drop the jar into the basket he’s holding and move on, trying to ignore the way it feels when he looks at me. It’s like I can feel his stare—like his gaze has mass and weight and meaning.
We work our way around the shop, making sure we have enough of what we’ll need. Pasta, rice, couscous, flour of all kinds, beans, and lentils. Fish, veal, and chicken. Then we get to the vegetable section.
“People fall into two distinct categories for me,” I say. “Lovers of aubergine, or idiots. Which are you?”
When he doesn’t respond, I turn and he’s smirking at me. “Aubergine? Like the emoji that represents…a penis?”
I sigh over-dramatically. “Are you a fourteen-year-old boy trapped in a—” I look him up and down. He didn’t get any less hot in the ten minutes since I last ogled him. “A man’s body?”
“Oh Christ, you gotta strap in. When you meet my brothers, you’re not going to know what hit you. There’s at least one dick joke per hour or their oxygen starts to wear thin.” He presses a kiss to my head like it’s no big deal that he just mentioned me meeting his family. I mean, we’ve kissed once. Even though I feel like we’re going to combust every time we’re near each other, he needn’t get ahead of himself. He reaches over me and grabs an aubergine. “But for the record, I love me some aubergine. Any chance of some moussaka?”
“One of my specialties,” I say, instantly distracted by the idea of cooking that tonight. “And we already have the cinnamon. Is there any lamb mince?”
“I might never want the weather to clear,” Zach says as he lifts up the first of two baskets he’s been carrying.
On the counter are various items for sale, including a carousel of tourist keyrings. This place is pretty remote, and it’s difficult to imagine them selling many of them. Particularly in winter. Gently, to stop anything falling, I turn the carousel, wondering if I should get one as a souvenir of one of the most memorable trips I’ve ever taken.
The guy behind the counter looks like he’s around twenty. He’s sporting facial hair like it’s a science experiment and has round, Harry-Potter-like glasses. “It’s just turned to red,” he says to no one in particular.
“Is that right?” another voice from behind the counter replies, and then a short woman in a dark green wool jumper and jeans springs up next to him like she’s been waiting to pounce.