Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Once I finished unpacking, I debated what to do with the flattened boxes and ended up stashing them in the back of the closet. It made sense to hang on to them, since I was going to need them again a year from now—or sooner, if his family saw right through our sham of a marriage.
Now that I was officially out of stuff to do, I curled up on the window seat and looked around. My Vegas bear sat on the mattress with two more stuffed animals, my favorite sketchbook was on the dresser, and Dusty was in his dog bed, happily gnawing on his toy. Those things should have helped me feel at home. I really wanted to relax, but instead, I was on edge.
It wasn’t just that I felt like a visitor. I’d been able to relax at the hotel, but here I was afraid of doing something wrong, of messing up this perfect home, of making Bryson mad or upset—although he’d already proven he was incredibly patient.
This was definitely a “me” problem. I didn’t trust myself in a place like this.
Maybe an hour later, I was sitting on the floor playing a game on my phone when Dusty came over to me and started doing his “I need to go out” dance. I scooped him up, and when I went downstairs, I discovered Bryson in the kitchen, tracing circles onto a sheet of parchment paper.
As I opened the back door and let the dog out, I asked, “What’re you doing?”
“Getting everything ready for our macaron lesson.” He moved a glass and ran a pencil around its base, creating another perfect circle. “It helps to have a template when you’re piping the cookies. That way, they’ll all end up the same size.” He turned the finished sheet over and added it to a small stack beside him.
“You remembered that you promised to teach me!”
“Of course. I bought all the ingredients with our grocery order, so everything’s ready whenever you are. We don’t have to do it today if you’re too tired, or—”
“Actually, I’d love to do it right now, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. Give me a minute, and I’ll get everything set up.”
He pulled a slate gray KitchenAid mixer out of a cabinet, and as he plugged it in I said, “I can’t believe you keep that hidden away. I’ve always wanted one of those in pink, and if I had one, I’d display it proudly.”
“I’ll keep it on the counter from now on, so you can use it whenever you want to without having to wrestle it out of the cabinet. It weighs a ton.”
While Bryson organized the ingredients, I let Dusty back in, pushed back the sleeves of my hoodie, and washed my hands. Then he walked me through his recipe and showed me what to do, one step at a time.
I meant it when I told him, “You’re a great teacher.”
“You’ll have to take that back if these turn out horribly.”
“They won’t. I already know that.”
After filling two large piping bags with our mixture, we stood side-by-side and dispensed perfect, pink disks onto parchment paper-lined baking sheets. “Now for my favorite part.” He raised a baking sheet about six inches and dropped it onto the counter with a loud clatter. “It gets rid of any air bubbles,” he explained, before doing it again.
The sound alerted Dusty, who leapt to his feet. When I picked up and dropped my baking sheet, he started barking, which made me chuckle. “Thank you for trying to save me from the noise by making more noise,” I told him.
Bryson said, “We have a little time before we can bake these. They need to sit for thirty to sixty minutes, so they’ll dry out a bit. Want a snack while we wait?”
“Sure. Which cereal did you end up buying?”
He opened a cabinet, which held at least ten different boxes of cereal. “All of the ones that seemed fun. I made room in this cupboard and the one next to it, so we can fill them with your favorite things. Right now, all that’s in the other one is popcorn and Red Vines, because you seemed to enjoy those during our movie night. I’ll add stuff once I learn more about what you like.”
I startled Bryson by grabbing him in a hug and whispering, “Thank you.”
“Welcome.” I let go of him and dabbed my eyes, and he asked, “Are you crying?”
“No.” After a beat, I admitted, “Maybe a little. That was really thoughtful, and I appreciate it so much.”
He seemed embarrassed as he muttered, “No big deal.”
It was to me, though. It made me feel welcome.
I remembered something just then and pulled a small item out of the pocket of my hoodie. “I got you this while we were in Vegas.” I picked up his hand and placed the colorful magnet on his palm. It featured the Las Vegas sign where we’d taken some photos, along with a cartoony rendition of the Strip, including our hotel and its Eiffel Tower. “You told me once that you used to have a whole collection of magnets. Maybe you could keep this one in your home office or something.”