Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 134045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Thinking it was Eliza or Karen, I didn’t move from my compromising position, merely turned my head over my shoulder, in preparation to say hello.
It wasn’t Eliza or Karen.
It was Lance. Standing frozen in my living room, bags in his arms, eyes focused squarely on my ass, which was all but hanging out of my shorts thanks to the angle.
I didn’t do the sensible thing and scramble up and out of this position and try to snatch onto dignity. No, I stayed exactly where I was.
Because Lance was giving me a look that did not chill my bones. It charred them.
My panties too.
There was heat, hunger in his gaze. So naked that I almost leaped from my position and pounced on him there and then, hunger that I didn’t think I was capable of due to my past all but possessing me.
But reason returned, and quickly, when Lance wiped that look off his face, replaced by indifference edged with contempt.
Then he moved, away from me in the direction of my kitchen.
Hearing him place the bags down on the counter, I realized that I was still on my living room floor on my hands and knees. I scrambled up, hitting my knee on the coffee table in my haste.
My eyes watered as I bit my lip and clutched my knee, determined not to make a sound that would cause Lance to come running, expecting a threat or bullet wound, not a wuss who couldn’t handle whacking her shin on the coffee table.
Because of this, I took longer to make it to the kitchen than I would have if I was a normal human being, capable of interaction with a hot guy like Lance without acting like an idiot or injuring herself.
I must have taken longer than I realized, because Lance had unpacked everything in the bags I’d seen him with and was chopping up broccoli.
I blinked at this.
The hot guy in my tiny kitchen, using my shitty kitchen knives and Sponge Bob cutting board. Then I blinked at the things around him. Potatoes, a slab of meat. A box of Oreos.
I had to bite my lip again to stop myself from crying once I realized what this was.
I was usually able to control my tears, being a mother made it compulsory. Being married to an abusive asshole also made it compulsory. Robert liked it when I cried. I guess it made him feel powerful. Like repeatedly hitting me, controlling what I wore, what I ate, where I went and who I was ‘friends’ with wasn’t enough.
It was one my one little rebellion until I found the courage for my big one—not crying. No matter how much pain I was in, no matter what ugly, vile things he spat at me, no matter what he did, I managed to find some kind of control over my tears.
But right now, I was struggling. Because Lance had demanded, rather brusquely, what my favorite meal was, scowled at me, walked out and bought it without a word.
It was a kind of kindness that wasn’t normal. But it was kind. I knew that.
It had been a long time since a man had done something like this for me.
Well, I was pretty sure a man had never done this for me. Except Bobby, of course. Or Nathan, pouring half a box of cereal onto the floor, the other half into a bowl and spilling milk all over the dining room table when he was making me ‘breakfast.’
Lance had obviously known I entered the room, because he was Lance. But he’d continued chopping the vegetables, not acknowledging me. Likely because he was waiting for me to act like a regular human being, comment on what he was doing, thank him, offer him help.
I did none of that. Just stared at him and tried not to cry.
“Lance,” I whispered, my voice thick and on the edge of breaking.
His gaze darted up to meet mine. It was hard, and it didn’t match up with the gesture of this moment.
I guessed that was kind of the point.
“There're potatoes there, you wanna chop them into slices thin enough so they’ll bake in the oven, since I’m guessin’ you don’t have a deep fryer.”
It wasn’t a question. I wasn’t sure if he’d come to the conclusion I didn’t own one because I couldn’t afford one—true—or because I was not a mother that gave her child deep-fried food on a regular basis—also true.
But it didn’t really matter, because beyond that not being a question, it was also an order, one that my body automatically listened to. Maybe because it was something to do other than stand in the middle of the kitchen crying in front of a relative stranger.
So I got the potatoes.
I chopped them.
Put them on a tray, oiled and seasoned them.
And put them in the oven.