Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“I’ll eat them,” he says insistently.
“Let me cook you something else too. To make up for that. They’re nasty.”
The fridge doesn’t have much in it. Just a package of steaks, a head of lettuce, a few peppers, a cucumber, and a thing of strawberries in the crisper. Then, a loaf of sliced bread on the top shelf, a gallon of milk near the back, a few sauces in the door, and a thing of orange juice there too. I’ve already pulled out the carton of eggs.
Patrick pulls out the loaf of bread, sniffs it, does that shrugging thing again, and throws two slices into the stainless steel retro toaster on the counter.
I finally scrape the nasty eggs onto a plate since he’s not going to let me waste them—I don’t want to argue over it—and crack two fresh ones in. I have the heat lower this time. If I break the yolks, I’ll eat them scrambled, but I’m not going to burn them.
Just then, the toaster pops up, and the toast gets tossed onto the plate. It’s not even another second before Patrick sets to work on it, shoveling hot-sauce-coated eggs into his mouth like there isn’t going to be another chance to eat burned eggs and super dry toast ever again.
There isn’t any yolk to sop up, but he cleans the plate of the hot sauce with a piece of crust.
I swear he’s done in less than three seconds.
“Whoa. Uh…”
“Flip those. They’re going to burn,” he interrupts.
Damn it, he’s right. I get both eggs turned over without breaking the yolks. They’re perfect. I have to pay attention instead of watching him. But it’s hard. I’m suddenly very interested in everything about this man that I’m now legally wed to, for the better of two weeks or for worse. If that’s the best joke I can make, I’m really losing my touch. I haven’t had a lot to laugh about over the past year, so it makes sense that I’m ultra-rusty.
Before I can offer some decent eggs to Patrick, he’s at the fridge, slamming back half the container of OJ. He lets out the softest ahhhh after, like he’s just quenched a massive thirst, and tucks it back into the door.
“I was thinking about doing some grocery shopping later. Is there anything you’d like me to get?” I ask.
“I have everything I need,” he says.
Okay. The fridge is mostly empty, and the cupboards are probably not much better.
I get the eggs onto a plate. They’re perfection. Absolute perfection. I should have started the toast already, but I’m shit at getting everything done at once. That’s the hardest part about cooking. All the timing.
I take out the loaf Patrick just had, and it smells freaking earthy as soon as I open the bag. I wrinkle my nose up when I realize it’s moldy. And not just a little. There’s, like, serious mold on it. Jesus, he really ate that?
He moves around the kitchen like I’m not even there. I close the fridge, grab my eggs, and watch him, though I try to pretend like I’m not. If he cares that I’m not a very good actress, he doesn’t let on.
A package of coffee beans comes out of the cupboard. It’s not some run-of-the-mill, gut-busting, nasty coffee one buys on a shoestring budget. This stuff looks expensive. A drawing of an orange and white fluffy cat on the bag gives two paws up.
After pouring beans into a grinder that he sets on the counter, he puts the lid on and hits the switch. He gives it just a few seconds to grind, then stops it. Then, a press comes down out of the same cupboard. I’m fascinated as I watch the whole process. Next, he takes a jug of distilled water out of the large pantry cupboard at the end and pours it into a retro-looking kettle that matches the toaster with its sleek stainless look. It kind of looks like an ancient rocket ship to me.
Patrick will devour burned eggs and moldy bread, but he won’t drink tap water in his coffee? That’s interesting. He appears to be a coffee snob.
I’m done with my eggs—and god lord, they were so much more delicious than they usually are—by the time the kettle clicks off. Observing Patrick using the French press with the boiling water and those grounds is almost like watching a scientist working in a lab.
He takes two mugs out of the cupboard. The dish set is plain matte black, and they’re chunky and heavy. The mugs aren’t tall. They’re just run-of-the-mill. He pours one and then makes a second mug. Without a word, he sets it on the counter in front of me.
I can’t drink coffee without cream and sugar, and that stuff smells bold.
It’s also ungodly hot, but he picks up the mug and takes a long pull like it’s not going to scald his darned face off.