Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
“What if I play some melodies while you do your yoga?” What the hell? I did not just say that.
Her blue eyes peer at me from beneath her lashes, all covert in her study of me. I don’t miss the way her attention lingers on my chest. That’s fine by me. I’m looking at her chest too. Fair’s fair and all that.
“How would you even know when I was doing yoga? It’s not like you can hear me knocking. And I’m not about to walk into this nightmare again.”
“Words hurt, Button.”
She stares, one red brow lifted.
“Text me,” I offer. “Then I’ll know when to keep it down.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“You’re just trying to be slow now, aren’t you?” I chuckle when she makes a face at me. “Give me your number. Or I’ll give you mine.”
Unbelievably, she wavers. A ripple of shock goes through me. I never give my real number out. Never. Only the band and Scottie have it. The rest get an assistant’s number or the secondary phone I use for hookups. And she doesn’t want it. Or maybe she doesn’t want me to have hers. Either way, it’s a blow I didn’t see coming.
I lick my dry lips. “I’m not trying to twist your arm here, sugar tits. If you’d rather I play—”
“Oh, calm your britches, sugar nuts,” she counters. “I’m just trying to remember my number. It’s not like I dial it often.”
She shocks a laugh from me. “Sugar nuts, eh?” Suddenly, I don’t want her to go. I want her to listen to me play my guitar. I want to cook her dinner and show off the fact that I actually know what I’m doing in the kitchen. And I want to hear what new outrageous thing will come out of her mouth.
The need for her companionship is so foreign to me that I’m a little dizzy. My stomach rolls uncomfortably. I swallow hard and my throat hurts, reminding me that I have absolutely no business flirting with any woman. I’m a few beats away from a panic attack, which means she needs to go, despite what I want.
I run a hand through my hair. “I should shower. I’ll get it from you later.”
Stella frowns but then lifts her hands up in exasperation. “Whatever. Just … keep it down.”
Disappointment in myself tastes bitter on my tongue. I swallow it, and again feel pain in my throat. “Yeah, sure.”
I’m better off avoiding her entirely. My life is too twisted for someone normal like her anyway.
Chapter Seven
Stella
* * *
“The secret to eating xiao long bao,” I tell my new friend Bradley, “is to place the dumpling on your spoon, pierce it with your chopstick, then slurp up all the soupy goodness that flows out before eating the rest.”
Bradley, a forty-six-year-old forensic accountant formerly from Cleveland, glances at me hesitantly, then down at the dumplings nestled in the bamboo steamer between us. A determined look crosses his face, and he reaches for a little swirl-topped pillow of dumpling heaven, carefully lifting it and setting it on his spoon.
“Remember to let the broth cool for a moment or you’ll burn your tongue.”
Bradley follows my instructions with exacting patience that serves him well in his profession. A cloud of fragrant steam escapes as he pierces his dumpling.
“Allow yourself the experience of inhaling all those lovely aromas.”
“It smells fantastic,” he says happily, and then slurps up his soup.
No matter how many times I witness the phenomena, it never fails to satisfy seeing someone eat a delicious new meal for the first time. The look of wonder and pleasure on their faces, followed by an almost childlike glee, makes me feel like a kid again too.
“Delicious,” he says with a sigh. “This is the best place to eat them?”
I eat a dumpling before I speak again. “There are other good places. I’ll send you a list. But I like it here because you can have a variety of excellent dishes.”
We’re in the East Village, a few subway stops from Bradley’s new place.
Bradley nods and takes out his phone to tap in some notes. It’s cute, if overly efficient. Some people treat their time with me as a sort of class in which I’m their teacher and they are the eager-beaver students. Others just soak up the experience. Bradley is clearly the former.
Which is fine by me. Whatever floats his boat. He’s paying for this, after all.
“Let’s try the scallion pancakes next,” he says with mounting excitement.
When I met Bradley, he barely spoke but blushed shyly and asked if we could try some soup dumplings. He’d read about them when he was preparing to move to New York, only when he’d arrived, he was too shy to go on his own or invite one of his new coworkers.
“You’ll love these,” I tell him, as he serves us each a section. “How’s the new job going?”