Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“I’ll put a lock on it tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I agree. I watch him as he glances over my tiny place. There isn’t really a kitchen. Only a small fridge and sink. If I need to cook something, I do it downstairs. I have a table with one chair. The table is my office. I never eat at it.
“Bathroom.” I point to one door. Then another. “Bedroom.”
“It’s cute,” he says, causing me to snort a laugh.
“Cute?” I take a real look for myself. I had given it a fresh paint job when I moved in. It hadn’t really needed one, but I find I need to keep busy.
“Smells like you.”
“What do I smell like?” I take a deep breath and don’t smell anything.
“Lavender.”
“That’s my soap.” I point toward the bathroom. “If you shower, you’ll smell like it too.”
“That’s a good idea. I think I’ll enjoy smelling like you.” He walks over to the bathroom, pushing the door open and flicking the light on. “Good.”
“Good?”
“It will fit both of us.” He pulls his shirt off. I stare at his broad, muscular chest.
“What did you say you did for a living again? Are you sure you’re not a model? Oh! I got it!” I snap my fingers. “Personal trainer.”
“No.” He laughs, running his fingers through his hair. I swear his cheeks redden a tinge. It’s adorable. Damn it. I might already be done for when it comes to Dylan.
CHAPTER 9
DYLAN
I stare at the ingredients I’ve accumulated on the counter. Eggs. Cheese. Tomatoes. Some green things with small white bulbs that look somewhat familiar but I’m not sure the name. A pan. A pot. A spoon. Not one of the small ones you eat soup with but a large spoon for stirring. I glance at my phone. If I could turn it on, I could do a search and find instructions on how to cook some breakfast for my woman. But turning my phone on means that I’m going to get a flood of notifications about how I abandoned my crew, that my whole tour is in danger, that if I don’t get my ass to Las Vegas or Los Angeles—wherever Chris is at the moment—within the hour, the entirety of my career will crash down around my ears. I plan to return. I still have one more day before the concert day in LA. I know my set by heart and can do a short soundcheck sometime tomorrow afternoon. It’ll work.
I’ve never made breakfast before. Before I got famous, I was a cereal guy. I never learned to cook and subsisted on takeout, sandwiches, and cereal. There are literally hundreds of different kinds, and I swear I’ve tried them all. Cereal is a broke indie musician food, not the kind you serve to a woman who you plan to bed. I don’t think scrambled eggs are the ideal morning-after food either but something hot comes off as more caring than milk and crackers.
I pick up an egg and hover it over the pan—the smaller, flatter one. Do I throw it in? Nah, I think I crack it against the edge. I tap the shell and nothing happens. I strike the edge harder, and the entire thing breaks in my hand.
“Shit.” I shake my hand over the sink and try again. The third time I get it right; only fragments of the shell fall into the pan along with the yolk and whites. Fishing those fuckers out with a fork or even my fingers doesn’t work.
“You should use the shell.”
I jerk upright. “Huh?”
Miss Irish herself, looking tousled and delectable, strolls toward me wearing a Get Lucky T-shirt that is big enough for the both of us. Struck dumb, I let her push me away from the counter. She grabs one of the shells and scoops out the fragments. “What were you making?”
“Eggs.” I peer into the pan. “How’d you do that?”
“Use the shell. I don’t know why, but it cuts through the membrane and allows you to capture the floaties. My mom—” She cuts herself off. “What kind of eggs?” she asks me in a quick change of subject.
I go along with it because it’s morning and she looks delicious, and I have to leave tomorrow or maybe even be on the red-eye tonight.
“How many different types of eggs are there?”
She scrunches her brows together. “Are you an alien?”
“No?”
“You’re not sure?”
“Did I feel like an alien last night?” I waggle my eyebrows.
She blushes adorably. “No sex talk during the daylight hours.” She turns away to toss the empty egg shell in the trash.
“Who made that rule up?”
“It’s a universal rule, or do you have different ones for your morning after?” There’s an edge to her tone that warns me to walk carefully. Good thing I have nothing to worry about.
“Would not know. I have never had a morning after for sex.” Although does fingering count as a sexual encounter? “This is my first.”