Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
As I sit in the recliner with a novel, I can’t help but wonder what the rest of his family is like. Are all of the Mistletoe brothers blessed with Matt’s superior genetics? Do they all have good jobs, too? Matt mentioned his mom, Joy, several times, but never brought up his father. I wonder if his dad passed away or is otherwise out of the picture? I’m always a little jealous of people with perfect nuclear families, and am a little relieved that Matt maybe isn’t one of them.
I try to focus on my book for a while, but can’t get into it. I’m antsy. Maybe doing something more physical would be better.
I remember with a start that Matt has a small garden in the backyard. I immediately rush into the bedroom and change into an oversized t-shirt and shorts. I’ve never owned plants myself--I’m away too often to care for them--but Grandma Carrie had a garden that I helped tend as a kid. I never learned the intricacies of gardening but I know the basics.
I head outside into a gorgeous day. The sun blazes in a sapphire-blue sky, and the mountains stand watch in the distance. I lose myself for a moment just staring at the beauty around me. I certainly never lose myself in the beauty of New York City, that’s for sure. Maybe wide-open spaces are more my speed.
Don’t make any decisions yet, I reprimand myself silently. Then, I survey Matt’s garden with a critical eye. Everything is lush and growing well, consisting of some flowers I recognize and some that must be native to the state. Some blossoms, however, could use some pruning. I brandish a set of shears lying conveniently on a table and set to work.
Eventually, I’m proud of my work, and decide to continue my new status of Domestic Goddess by making dinner. It’s a risky choice--sometimes my meals turn out well, but sometimes they’re nothing short of disasters. I probably can’t mess up a simple pasta dish and a salad too badly, and Matt already has the ingredients. I wash dirt and sweat from my face and hands, then make a quick cocktail in the kitchen. I’m going to need some liquid courage for this.
After a few minutes, I’m boiling water, chopping veggies, and slurping down my cocktail like there’s no tomorrow. This is almost fun, I think, but realize that this could be because of the alcohol. Still, I manage not to mess up anything (besides the pasta boiling a minute or two past al dente). I quickly set the table, make a second gin and tonic, and even light a candle I found in one of the cupboards. Damn. I’m good.
“Honey! I’m home!” Matt’s voice sounds from the entryway as soon as I place the bowl of salad on the table. I roll my eyes at the greeting, but giggle a little as well. I could get used to that kind of affection from him.
I stroll to the door to meet him, a cocktail in each hand. When I offer him his, I watch his gaze trail unabashedly down my form, lingering on my short shorts. “I made dinner, too,” I inform him saucily, and his eyes meet mine. The sapphire blue is flaring hotly, like the middle part of a flame. I try not to blush and return his gaze as best I can.
Matt smiles, and the moment ends, but I still feel as if he just looked into my very soul. I take a big gulp of my cocktail, my heart suddenly pounding. I definitely wasn’t prepared for that.
“What did you make us?” he asks, hanging up his jacket and strolling to the table. I sit opposite him and we dig into the pasta and salad (a pint of ice cream I found in the freezer will serve as dessert). “This is good,” he says after a moment.
I raise a brow. “You sound surprised.”
He laughs. “I just didn’t know you were a chef as well as a rock star.”
My lips curl into a mischievous smirk. “I have many hidden talents.”
“Like what?” he asks immediately.
I pause for dramatic effect and grin into my gin and tonic. When I meet his gaze, his eyes are dark again, and his expression can only be described as hunger. Needing. Like he’s ready to leap across the table and devour me. I nearly spill my drink, and when I raise the glass to my mouth, my hand is trembling slightly. Something in our dynamic has definitely changed. Something very sexual has definitely appeared.
Well, I think. Game on.
“A lady can’t divulge all her secrets at once,” I say, taking a long sip of my drink.
“Tell me some of them, at least,” he replies with half a grin.
I notice him scratching at his collar and realize a talent I can share. “Come here,” I say, beckoning with my index finger.