Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 70037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
When I make it to the entryway, I take a second to make sure I’m decent before I check the peephole and open the door.
Once again, I’m caught off guard by just how handsome Gaston is. Even dressed casually in jeans and a button-down gray shirt that does amazing things to his eyes, he still makes my breath catch. When I notice he’s carrying two reusable shopping bags in one hand, I blink in confusion, then take a step back when he places his big palm against my stomach, urging me inside.
“I know I said I was taking you out to dinner, but after thinking about it and knowing you’ve probably been up since early this morning, I decided I should just cook dinner for you here. That way you can go to bed without the hassle of dinner out and the ride back home afterward.”
He said a lot, but still I’m stuck on one point. “You’re going to cook dinner?” I know I sound confused and concerned, but my dad has never—at least, not that I know of—cooked dinner. Really, the only thing I’ve seen him use the stove for is to scramble eggs in too much oil and make boxed macaroni and cheese, which should have been okay, considering there were only about three ingredients, but it never was.
“Got the stuff to make seafood risotto. I also picked up chicken, in case you’re allergic to seafood.”
Who is this man, and seriously, what planet did he come from?
“You okay with that?” he prompts.
“I’m not allergic to seafood,” I tell him, and he grins a way-too-hot-for-real-life grin. A grin that does serious things to my girl parts.
“Then show me the way to the kitchen, sweetheart, and keep me company while I cook.”
“Sure.” I lead him down the hall, wishing I’d known this was going to happen. At least then I would have taken a minute to clean up. My apartment is clean, but there are still random clothes tossed onto the back of the couch, magazines and books open on the coffee table, and half-drunk cups of coffee here and there. And my kitchen is a mess. Crackers, chips, and boxes of cereal have been left open on the counters, and dishes are still in the sink from this morning.
“I’m not normally this messy,” I blurt, suddenly feeling on edge as we enter the kitchen, and he stops to look around. “I haven’t thought much about anything else but work since I got home from my best friend’s wedding in Tennessee yesterday afternoon.”
“You have a great view,” he tells me, ignoring my statement while dropping the grocery bags onto the counter, then moving to my sliding-glass doors and opening them up. It’s freezing, but the night is clear, so the moon and every single star seem to be out, reflecting down on the ocean. “I bet you bought this place for the view.”
“I did,” I admit, watching as he strolls to the edge of the balcony to rest his hands around the banister. “It’s better in the summer, but I still enjoy the view in the winter.” I pause. “Though I normally enjoy it through the glass, because it’s freezing.”
I’m standing just inside with my arms wrapped around myself to fight the cold. Without a word, he comes back in, closing the door. “Growing up in Jersey, I got used to the cold. The winters there are no joke, and it snowed all the time. I barely register the cold here.”
“I lived in New York for a while, so I understand.”
“The state, or the actual city?” he questions, and I know exactly what he’s asking. A lot of people say they live in New York, but not many actually live or have lived in the city itself. True Manhattanites are steadfast in their opinion that there’s a difference between living in Manhattan and living in Albany or Buffalo.
“Manhattan.”
“What took you to Manhattan?” he asks, stopping close enough that I’m able to notice the slight scruff forming along his jaw and below his cheekbones, making them more pronounced.
“School. I went to the Institute of Culinary Education and was there for a little over a year to complete the baking and arts program.”
“So they taught you how to make those cookies?” he asks while he casually takes my hand and pulls me toward the kitchen.
“No, my grandma—my dad’s mom—had me helping her in the kitchen as soon as I was able to crack eggs. She taught me everything I know, and when she passed away, she left me an old binder with all my family’s recipes—recipes that have been passed down generation after generation. Those cookies you liked so much today were actually made first by my dad’s great-great-aunt Flo for her husband. He worked on a farm as a ranch hand and needed a pick-me-up halfway through his day, so she came up with the recipe just for him.”