Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Get it together, Harrington.
It’s her night off. She probably won’t even want to have dinner together. Or sit on the patio and drink tea. Or sneak off to my bedroom and fuck on the expanse of my king-size bed, where her pink hair would stand out in stark relief against the white sheets, for the next fourteen hours, give or take.
As I walk in the house, the smells of garlic and tomatoes surround me and I follow my nose to the kitchen, where I find Riley. Quietly, I watch her for a moment.
She’s wearing her usual combat boots and her leopard print skirt is painted over her ass, but it swooshes out from her knees to mid-calf. Her pink T-shirt matches her hair and is thankfully not too cropped because I don’t know if I could withstand a peek at her belly tonight. I definitely couldn’t handle that fucking cat T-shirt, so I’m glad she didn’t go for a kitty theme with the patterned skirt. Her hair is down and shaggy, with little chunks randomly flipping out here and there, and her bracelets are jangling as she moves.
In front of her, on the stove, there’s pasta boiling in one pot, but she’s using the spoon as a microphone, singing into it with passion. “H-O-T-T-O-G-O!” On another burner, a pot of what looks like a good marinara sauce is simmering on low, and there are two plates already set on the island. She’s made us dinner.
It’s sweet. It’s trouble. For both of us. But somehow, I’m smiling at the scene before me.
I can do this. It’s just a dinner. Like all the others we’ve had together.
Except Grace isn’t here. And I need that buffer. Desperately.
“Hi.”
“I wondered when you were gonna quit lurking like a creeper and say something,” Riley teases, not even turning around. I’ve seen the way she watches behind her in the window’s reflection over the sink, like she’s perpetually on high alert, and I’ve wondered what in her life has made her feel that vulnerable, even in the safety of her home. But there’s nothing reflective over the stove. Yet, she still knew I was here.
“Didn’t want to interrupt your acapella karaoke,” I deadpan. She whirls, the brilliant idea sparkling in her eyes and her grin already wide with excitement, and I instantly shut it down. I have to. I can’t risk being upstairs in the media room with her, where it’s dark, private, with a long, comfortable couch where I could easily lay her out to feast on her body. “No karaoke tonight. I need to work.”
She deflates instantly, her lips turning down into a pout that I want to kiss away.
“Sorry, duty calls,” I tell her apologetically, making it sound like I really would rather be singing karaoke with her.
The truth is, I don’t have any work that requires my attention tonight. There are always things to be done, because it’s a never-ending hamster wheel at Blue Lake, but I make it a point to find a work-life balance that doesn’t turn me into a workaholic like my father has always been. I admire what he’s created corporately, but as far as family goes, he was a shitty father to most of my siblings and I would die before I let Grace think that about me.
Tonight, work is simply an easy excuse to get away from Riley and the temptation I’m not sure I’m strong enough to withstand.
“Do you at least have time to eat?” she asks, hope in her voice. “Or should I make you a plate to take to your office?”
I let my eyes lick over her face—her doe eyes rimmed with sharp, black liner, her upturned nose with the cute little hoop, and her full lips slightly lifted at the corners like she’s anticipating my answer. I should say that I don’t have time and run for the safety and sanctuary of my office. What comes out of my mouth is…
“I have a minute.”
“Awesome!” She makes a spaghetti dinner with me sound like the best part of her day.
She whirls again, pulling the pasta from the stove and carrying it to the sink, where there’s a colander waiting. “Here, let me,” I offer. Instinctively, I take the heavy pot from her, but that puts us so close that our hips bump into each other. “Sorry,” I mutter. She doesn’t move away the way I expect her to. No, she stays right next to me, overseeing what I’m doing like I don’t know how to pour spaghetti into a colander. To be fair, I do splash a bit, but that’s not because I’m inept. It’s because my focus is on her, not the boiling hot water.
As soon as I’m done, she takes the pasta back and dumps it back in the pot, then adds the sauce there. “This,” she says, “is called mantecare and is the best way to make pasta.”