Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
If it isn't bad enough that Riley Wilson was capable of distracting me enough that I didn't know my kitchen was ablaze, she just won't leave me alone.
Until she does.
Which leaves me in the precarious position of trying to insert myself into her life.
What could possibly go wrong in a roommate situation with a woman I can't get out of my head?
How does he not remember me from the seven minutes in heaven from high school when it's something I relived for years after the fact?
Hooking up with Mac Hammer after he seemed to have forgotten the best makeout session of my life was possibly the worst decision I've ever made.
Now he's on my front porch demanding a place to stay, as if it was my fault he interrupted me while I was preparing a meal for one of his clients.
Guilt made me agree to him moving in, and hopefully, I'll have the strength to keep from sneaking into his room in the middle of the night.
A couple of weeks of resistance shouldn't be all too hard.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Riley
She threw soup in my face.
How do women like her even exist?
I blink through the sting and stare at her.
Scarlett LeBlanc glares back at me as if she's justified in what she just did.
"You threw soup in my face," I say, my voice low and filled with disbelief.
"That soup is awful," she screeches, her voice pitched high. It drips with disdain and self-importance.
My heart races, and my hands tremble. I spent an extra half hour on my hair this morning. I meticulously applied my makeup to make sure it didn't look like I was trying too hard. Women from the city can spot that sort of thing from miles away. I blame it on the fact that they spend so much time around fake and pretentious people.
Scarlett LeBlanc has a summer home here in Lindell, and I've heard rumors around town that she frequently has parties. The expensive cars coming in and heading down her road are proof enough of that, but no one in town has gotten more than a quick glance of her. She doesn't shop at the local stores, and she certainly wouldn't be caught dead attending one of the town's many festivals.
I was shocked when I got a call from her yesterday saying that she wanted me to cater an event at her house. I could tell by her tone she wasn't exactly happy about having to place the call to me, but I was determined to prove to her that Lindell has more to offer than people who gossip. I know my menu is what she's looking for. I've been told many, many times that it's geared more toward people from the city, not the citizens of Lindell, and although that has always been a point of contention with me, this was supposed to be my shot. If Scarlett was impressed with my food and professionalism, then maybe she'd chat with her friends about it, and my business could really take off the way I've always dreamed.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" she growls, her arms coming up to cross over her chest. Her head is held high, telling me that she doesn't feel an ounce of remorse for what she has done, and I think that surprises me the most.
It's not unheard of for people to do something without thinking, but they usually regret it to some degree. She's righteous in what she did, and I can tell by the way her eyes narrow as she watches me that she'd do it a second time without hesitation.
I swipe a finger down my cheek, grateful that I chose gazpacho instead of a hot soup, considering the amount I'm wearing on my person right now.
I slip the finger into my mouth, feeling a little better when her nose scrunches further.
"It may need a little more cucumber or a hint more of tarragon, but it definitely doesn't taste like cat urine."
She gawks at me as if I'm an alien that just dropped out of the sky and appeared in her kitchen.
She didn't use those words exactly, but as a Southern woman who respects herself, I'm not going to repeat her verbatim.
Her mouth hangs open a half of an inch, and I can tell she's dumbfounded that I'd challenge her in any way.
"I take it you won't be hiring A Taste of Elegance for your event?"
Instead of waiting for an answer I already have, I turn and grab a hand towel from the kit I brought with me. I wipe my face, knowing it's going to take more than a couple of swipes to get myself completely clean. Since the tomato-based soup is dripping from my hair and has soaked through my clothing, that won't be happening here.
"I'll have to admit," I say as I gather the things I brought and start repacking them into my totes. "I never imagined something like this happening to me, especially by someone from the city."
"You can't tell anyone about this," she says, a hint of worry in her tone.
Now? Now she worries?
"You signed a contract."
I turn in her direction, giving her a once-over, and inwardly wonder how often she goes to get Botox injections in her forehead. If she scowls often, like she's scowling at me now, it would have to be very frequent to keep those lines under control.
"I did sign a contract," I say as I go back to getting my things together so I can get out of here before she decides it's fitting to throw something else at me.
I thought the clipboard that she thrust into my hand before she even welcomed me inside her home was weird. Hindsight tells me that I should've been worried then, but I figured she was throwing a surprise party or that I'd be in contact with celebrities, and she wanted to protect their privacy. I also considered it was going to be a type of party that I'd be too embarrassed to speak to others about, but I signed the contract, blaming the books I read on that wayward thought.