Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
I look down, noticing she has a garbage bag in her hand. Her muddy clothes. Right.
“Yeah.” I lead her away, thankful to have something to do. “Follow me.”
We head up the small staircase, down the hallway, and I open the mirror into the bake shop.
“And the Pirate jersey is baggy, if you’d prefer that,” I tease, remembering Dylan included another option.
“My tits look horrible in orange,” Aro says. “Everyone looks horrible in orange, Hawke.”
Tits? Did she really…? Ugh.
I step through the mirror, feeling her follow me. “Don’t women hate the word tits?”
My mom would never say that.
But she jokes, “Oh, I’m sorry. My breasts look horrible in—oh, nope, ‘breasts’ is still pretentious. I’ll just keep saying tits.”
I wince. That sliver of attraction I might’ve felt a moment ago is suddenly gone. Thank God.
“Or hooters!” she chirps.
Jesus…
“Knockers, maybe?” She won’t stop. “How about ‘my bosoms’? Mammary glands! Udders!”
I push through the kitchen door, hearing it slam into the one of the stoves behind it.
“I can make this so much worse, Hawke.”
“God, you’re vulgar.” I walk over to the combo washer and dryer Quinn installed here to take care of dish towels and aprons. I open the washer lid.
“Just keeping it real,” she taunts behind me. “We’ll never be friends.”
“And I might cry about that eventually.” I turn to look at her. “Once it sinks in.” I point to the shelf to the right of the machine. “Tide PODS are there. Don’t eat them.”
I walk away, hearing her snort.
She dumps her clothes into the washer, takes a pod, tosses it in, and starts the machine. Her right arm stays at her side as she does everything with her left, and it hits me. The injury from her stepfather. I forgot.
I should’ve checked it when she came inside. She looked like she’d been in another fight.
I doubt she’s eaten since this morning either.
My stomach growls, too.
“You hungry?” I ask, hearing the water start to load inside the washing machine.
She faces me, and I blink, trying to hide the fact that my gaze dropped. To her shirt.
I clear my throat. “I’m starving.” I turn and get to work, pre-heating the oven and digging a pan and some utensils out. “There’s a container of sauce in the cooler. Can you grab it?” I ask her. “And toss me the pepperoni too.”
She smiles small, and I can tell she’s hungry. It’s after midnight, but she doesn’t look any more tired than I am, so we set to work, making pizza in the sealed-off kitchen that’s supposed to be empty until next May.
I stream some music, both of us relaxing a little. It’s late, and if anyone passes by and hears us or smells the oven, they’ll think it’s coming from Rivertown.
It’s kind of nice—seeing the world but not having them see you. Like we’re the only two people left.
I watch her pull her hair up into a ponytail, long bangs hanging in her eyes as she kneads the dough I made. I chop toppings, and I can’t stop the heat warming my body. I don’t know why this feels good, but it does.
She’s the first non-family member woman I’ve been around in a long time who’s not expecting me to make a move. Being around her isn’t hard or pressuring.
She’s easy.
For a little while anyway.
“You are such an idiot!” she barks ten minutes later as I spread sauce over the dough.
“Chicago-style pizza is not pizza,” I retort, sorry I ever got into this dumbass discussion with her.
“And who determines what pizza is?”
“Italians.” I place pepperoni slices, keeping my tone calm, even though she’s about to spit fire. “Pizza is not something you eat with a knife and fork. Now the pliable New York pie that you can fold in half? Hell yeah.”
“Would you have some fucking regional pride, for crying out loud?” She scowls at me. “We’re basically Chicagoans.”
“It’s not pizza.” I flex my jaw. “It’s a meat pie.”
“And Chicago is tougher,” she snaps, getting in my face. “Windier, colder, snowier—you need more substance in your pizza.”
“Oh, please.”
She continues. “The rest of the country just can’t handle four pounds of heat and meat in their mouths, Hawke.”
Oh my God. I gape at her for a solid four seconds and then…
I can’t contain it. I laugh, having to turn away. “What the hell…”
I laugh so hard my eyes tear, and I hear her behind me. “Haha,” she teases. “Gotcha.”
I plant my hands on the counter, bending my head and still laughing. “Okay, okay…I got nothing on that.”
She beams, and I get the rest out as I walk over and take some of the cheese she’s shredded, sprinkling it on.
“Now, how do you feel about the Chicago pub-style pizza?” I ask.
She follows suit, sprinkling on cheese. “Pizza should not be cut into squares.”
“I agree.”
“That’s not pizza.”
I shake my head. “Not pizza at all.”