Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
My kitchen is awash in the smell of fresh baked goods as I come downstairs after an invigorating shower. Whitney has her hair piled loosely on top of her head, a loose ringlet escaping here and there. She’s dug out an ancient apron from my days of actually cooking at Shake Place, and it’s now adorned with berry-colored splatter and a dusting of flour. Singing along to whatever rock song is playing in her headphones, she doesn’t hear me come in. I lean against the wall and watch her as her hips sway to the music while her hands expertly roll out some dough. She’s gorgeous, and frankly, I want her in my kitchen every morning.
“Oh, geez, you startled me,” she exclaims as she turns around to find me observing her in her natural element.
I walk to her and pop the headphones out of her ears and kiss the strawberry off her lips. Whatever she’s making with it is going to be delicious, even more so because her hands have been on it.
“How about I put this music on the sound system so you can continue to dance around the kitchen while you prepare a culinary masterpiece?”
“I don’t dance,” she insists.
“I just saw you dancing.”
“Oh, that wasn’t dancing, I was just kind of moving to the music.”
“Yeah, Whit, that’s called dancing,” I chuckle.
“How long were you standing there watching me, anyway?” she accuses playfully.
“Long enough to see those ample hips sway to the beat,” I tell her and put my hands on those hips to shake them to a tune I can’t hear. Whitney giggles.
“My friend, Alvina, dances. She loves the country line stuff where there are very distinct steps that everyone follows. I’ve tried it with her in her apartment, but my feet get all tangled up. I’m just not a dancer”
“Dancing should be like sex,” I tell her. “You move in a way that makes you feel good and it just flows. Sure, there’s a lot to be said for the precision of choreographed dance, but that doesn’t mean you should miss out on the fun. Let’s have a dance party in the living room tonight. I may not be able to take you out on the town at the moment, but we can have fun right here.”
She smiles, but then it fades.
“I’d love to, but I have to go home and feed Apollo. I left him enough food to last until this afternoon, but I can’t neglect him forever. He’s been the only reliable man in my life for years.”
I consider this. I want her here, but of course she can’t ignore her feline companion.
“Go home, pack enough clothes for the week and bring Apollo back with you. Demeter could use some company too.”
She giggles.
“Um, I don’t know about that. What if they don’t get along? Apollo has only ever been around my mom’s cat and that bitchy furball sends him cowering into a corner,” she says wryly.
“Did it sound like there was a question mark at the end of that sentence? You and I are going to spend the week together. We will dance and watch movies in the screening room at night. During the day we can work on the new shake flavors for the new menu. I can even be your guinea pig for anything new recipes you might want to try for the bakery.”
Whitney considers for a moment, and I decide not to give her the option of backing out. She has a way of talking herself out of things that are good for her, thinking she doesn’t deserve it for some reason. I pick up my phone to call my driver.
“Hi George, I’m going to need a few hours of your time today. I need you to pick Miss Porter up here at noon and take her back to her apartment. But instead of just dropping her off, I need you to wait for her to pack a bag and then bring her back. She’ll also have a cat with her.”
George has been my driver for more than ten years and he agrees immediately.
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, George,” I tell him and end the call.
“Hey, I never said okay!” Whitney protests before I even have a chance to set my phone on the counter. She’s clearly miffed.
“And what reason would you have to say no?” I ask, one brow raised. “Are you not enjoying our time together?”
“Of course, I’m enjoying our time together,” she retorts but the cadence of her speech has quickened and she’s enunciating her words in an exaggerated, clipped fashion. Her brow is furrowed and the corners of her mouth have turned down. This must be what an angry Whitney looks and sounds like. “But you have to wait for me to say yes first, and you didn’t! You just went ahead and booked the car.”