Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“It’s almost ready. I just have to dish up.”
I watch as she transfers the steaming food to plates, my mouth watering, not just for the food.
“Shall we?” she says.
I take a plate, careful not to touch her hand when she passes it to me. If I touch her, resisting will become even more difficult, which would be impossible since I’m already on the edge. One touch—hell, one look—could push me over.
We go into the dining room together. She stands at the head of the table, frowning.
After a moment, I realize why. I set our cutlery out so we’ll be sitting right next to each other, close enough to touch. I’ve got no clue how she feels about the kiss.
Reading desire into her expression is too easy, but she probably regrets it.
Her step-uncle kissed her, then ghosted her, and now we’re not mentioning it or hinting that it happened. As far as elephants in the room go, this is huge, an undeniable distraction we’re both pretending to ignore.
I sit at the head of the table with Layla right next to me. If I shuffled forward, our legs might touch.
I focus on the food instead, forking chicken and vegetables. The meat is perfectly cooked, with just the right texture and moisture, and the sauce is perfect. When the taste hits me, I close my eyes, savoring it.
“Good?” she asks when I’ve swallowed and opened my eyes.
“Good doesn’t even come close,” I tell her. “This sauce… it’s amazing. Did you make it yourself?”
She beams, nodding. “It’s nothing special. I’ve been working on recipes since I was maybe thirteen or fourteen. I want to release a recipe book one day, and anyway, you don’t need to hear all this.”
“I’m interested.”
Her smile drops, her tone going dark.
“Really? Why?”
I sense this is it—the first time we’re pulling the past into the present. I can’t think of another reason for her sudden change in mood.
I could tell her I was interested as any step-uncle would be—a polite familial thing, nothing more, but I don’t want to lie. Or maybe that’s an excuse.
“Because I want to get to know you, Layla,” I say gruffly. “I’m interested in you. Your passions, your dreams. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I never said there was anything wrong with it.”
We eat without talking, and the atmosphere is suddenly steely and awkward. That doesn’t change the taste of the food, though, and I can’t mask my pleasure in it. She smiles again, a gift. One I’ll never tire of earning.
“It’s not that good, is it?” she says.
“Are you fishing for more compliments?” I tease.
She laughs, which is another reward. “Feedback on my recipes is important. If there’s anything you’d improve, you can be honest.”
“There isn’t,” I tell her firmly. “This is restaurant quality. It tastes healthy, too.”
“Are you surprised?” she asks.
I sit back, laying my fork down. She’s doing a lousy job hiding her annoyance, regret, whatever it is. Something is happening between us here, a mood she can’t control.
Can I blame her? After what I did?
“Why would I be surprised?” I say.
“Just your tone, I guess. Like maybe you didn’t expect healthy food from me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s nothing,” she replies. “I guess I’m just tired.”
More silence, leaving me to ponder her words. Then it hits me.
“I’d never judge your body,” I tell her.
She flinches and stares at me, and I know I’ve got it right.
“I know you wouldn’t. Anyway, not to get all arrogant, but I haven’t got a problem with my body. I quite like it. Sometimes, I speak without thinking, you know?”
Danger, danger, danger.
This conversation needs to end.
“So do I,” I say passionately.
“Speak without thinking?”
“No. I like your body.”
She looks at me for a long time without responding, doing that intoxicating lip-biting thing again. I’m doing everything possible to avoid leaning across the table and tasting something even more delicious than her food.
“R-really?” she murmurs.
Stop, stop, stop.
“Your body is perfect, Layla. You’re right not to be ashamed of it. Everything about you is perfect.”
She stands abruptly, her chair legs squeaking against the floor.
“I’m done,” she says, picking up her plate with plenty of food left on it.
Without waiting for me to say anything, she leaves the room quickly. She knows I just overstepped. I shared way too much. Yet still, as I watch her go, I’m hungry to not only say more but do more.
CHAPTER FIVE
Layla
Everything about you is perfect.
I replay the moment as I rinse the dishes, preparing them for the dishwasher.
He was leaning across the table, staring at me like he’d happily pick up where we left off at the wedding. His steaminess was so obvious I couldn’t doubt it, especially when I felt his gaze on me when I left… watching me walk away.
Just like Noah often watches Mom.
Miles walks into the room behind me. I hear him but don’t turn, as if ignoring him will make any of this easier.