Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
He rises so early to work out, which I can’t even fathom. I always reach for him with a half-awake groan when he gets up at some ungodly hour. Once I decide I’ll surprise him. I set an alarm that makes me whine and curl up into a ball when it wakes me. I creep to his kitchen and make him breakfast.
By the time gets back from his workout, I’m ready with a plate of only kind of runny scrambled eggs and toast, a glass of orange juice, all on a bamboo tray with a napkin folded into a triangle. I beam at him, and he looks at me, puzzled.
“What’s all this?” he says.
“I wanted to surprise you,” I say sheepishly.
“You made me eggs?” he says, his voice sounding a little dubious as he looks at the plate.
“I did. Isn’t it scary? I never felt like cooking for anybody in my life. Well, other than my dad.”
“You probably shouldn’t bring your dad into the conversation when I can see your nipples through that shirt,” he teases me.
“Right. Afraid to eat the eggs?”
“A little.”
“A big, tough businessman like you?”
“Thank you for making me breakfast. It’s very sweet of you.” He tries so hard to arrange his features into something like a smile that I burst out laughing.
“Do you hate eggs or do they just look that bad?”
“I wouldn’t say I hate them. It’s more that I usually just grab a protein bar after I work out. That doesn’t make this any less thoughtful though. I know how much you love your sleep. You got up early to do this for me and—”
“Stop,” I giggle. “You don’t have to eat it. In fact, watching you try to act like it’s a delightful surprise is almost worth getting up that early to make scrambled eggs,” I confess.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh, thank God!” he says, setting the tray aside and kissing me. “Because I’m no expert but I don’t think scrambled eggs are supposed to slosh around the plate like that.”
“To be fair, my dad is usually still sleeping and I just grab a bowl of cereal,” I admit.
It gets harder every day not to give in to the feelings I have for him. It’s like I rely on a hastily constructed dam made of toothpicks and chewing gum to hold back the torrent of emotions that grow stronger by the day. I didn’t think I was the falling in love type, much less the kind of girl who goes for bad boys. Morally gray book boyfriends aside, I never wanted the excitement of a dangerous lifestyle.
I never dreamt of falling asleep on silk sheets or having a boyfriend who gives me diamond earrings to wear to dinner. When I refuse to accept them—it’s too much, it’s not the kind of thing I would ever need-- he just kisses me and tells me to wear them for him. He likes seeing me in them. So, I wear them. And I don’t even consider pawning them to pay off my father’s debts. I have no doubt that they’d cover what he owed and then some, with their perfectly blue-white gleam.
But I know it would hurt him if I tried to sell them. It’s a dangerous game for me, or it feels that way. Because sometimes it occurs to me that he would cover the whole debt if I asked him to, or that he already has, and I just don’t know it. I know he isn’t comfortable with me owing him anything, that he never wants this to be like that.
Somehow it isn’t like that. Because I know I could level him with a word. As much as I fight to hold back how I feel, to keep from letting him know because any sensible person realizes this is doomed, he doesn’t hide his feelings very well. It’s like the wall he built in a hurry wasn’t even made of toothpicks—more like a stack of fast-food napkins and watery glue.
I’m constantly aware that I can’t do this forever. All it will take is one close call with a bullet or a blade and I’ll panic and disappear from his life. I don’t have the nerves of steel I’d need to be with a man whose life is in constant peril, no matter how many times he tells me he works in an office now.
I know the truth. Both sides of it. The part that realizes I love him, and the part that knows there’s going to be hell to pay if I stay with him.
Reality hits me like a ton of bricks on a Tuesday morning. My first thought is we never should’ve gotten fish tacos from DoorDash at one in the morning, they were probably old.
Jack sleeping soundly, an arm thrown across his eyes to block any light. If the tacos were bad, he’d be sick too, I think, as the last bit of logic fails me and panic has me writhing in its grip.