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)
I imagine her in the kitchen making me breakfast. Maybe some bacon and eggs and a side of French toast for good measure, but then I remember how over the top her cooking is, and disappointment swirls around me as I stand from the bed and give my body another big stretch before heading to the bathroom.
Thoughts of French toast fly out the window as I take care of business before using a washrag I find in her small linen closet to wash my face. She's probably making octopus tentacle, escargot, or something even more insane like a vegan burger with those huge mushrooms as the bun.
I pull on my clothes, grateful that it's New Year's Day, and we schedule the day off, because it's much later than I would have to get up for work.
I make my way toward the delicious scent and find Riley standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee held to her chest as she looks out the window above her sink.
I stand a few feet away, watching her, wondering what she's thinking about that would make that cute smile form on her face. I'm egotistical enough that after last night, I can imagine that it's thoughts of me making her happy, but all that fades away when she turns her head, noticing me standing there. Her lips form a flat line, and I watch her face transform as if she's annoyed that I haven't left yet.
The woman is the queen of mixed signals, and I don't know how to feel about it.
"Good morning," I tell her, opting to ignore her disappointment rather than bring it up and start some sort of fight this morning.
"Hey," she says, her tone a little softer than I expect from the look on her face. "I have a casserole in the oven, but I understand if you need to get out of here."
I can tell by the way that she says it that she fully expects me to bolt out the door and never look back. The woman is too fucking pretty to think that a man wouldn't want to spend more time with her, but I'm in no position to be that kind of guy for her. I have too much stuff on my plate right now to add trying to be something more for her. I'd only leave her disappointed. That was never my goal, despite the off-the-wall shit I've said to her when I start feeling ways that I shouldn't.
"Does it have squid in it?"
Her head tilts as a huff of laughter erupts from her mouth, and I feel myself smiling in return.
"No," she answers.
"Because that would be weird for you?"
"Squid would dry out too quickly in the oven."
"So, nothing weird in it?"
She shrugs. "I don't know what you'd consider weird, but it's eggs, milk, cut-up bagels, some spices. It's like a French toast bake."
"Smells delicious."
Her smile grows wider. "Thank you. Coffee in the pot if you want some."
I follow the point of her finger, but with the way the woman is looking in those tiny sleep shorts and tank top, coffee is the last thing on my mind.
Her eyes roam over my chest and down my torso, and I stand a little taller when her gaze pauses on the denim getting tighter just under my belt buckle, but then she darts her eyes away. The confidence she showed last night is nowhere to be found, but I don't exactly hate the pink in her cheeks showcasing her timidness either.
There's something about all the facets of this woman that I enjoy.
I move around her, feeling a little silly when I press my lips to her temple before heading for the coffee pot.
For a man who is adamant about this being nothing but great sex, that little action seems entirely out of place.
A timer goes off before I can lift my cup to my mouth and get my first taste of coffee.
"Do you need help with anything?" I ask when she sets down her coffee cup and shuffles to the oven.
"You can grab a couple of plates out of the cabinet," she says, pointing over my shoulder as she grabs a potholder before reopening the oven.
I do as she has requested, setting the plates down on the counter as she pulls the fluffy, bubbly breakfast out of the oven. The scent of cinnamon and sugar triples as she closes the oven and sets the casserole down on a trivet. Instead of making a production out of it like I fully expected her to do with the way the woman talks about food, she simply grabs a serving spoon and scoops some of the food onto each plate. I notice how much bigger my serving is than hers, but I choose not to say anything about it.
"Thank you," I tell her when she slides a plate in front of the stool I'm standing near.