Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Now I’m paying for all my excitement, bottled-up laughter, and barely eating anything at dinner. It’s two in the morning, and I’ve been awake this whole time, half buzzed by the excitement of having my family here, half by my belly groaning and rumbling, and well, I guess also half by not-so-chaste thoughts of my husband that have me burning up.
I eventually shove myself out of bed and leave my room. I haven’t really gone down to the kitchen for anything yet since meals are always set out in the dining room because, apparently, rich people have that luxury. But I still find it easily enough. The kitchen isn’t like most of the rooms in the house. Instead of having a big wooden door, it has a set of double metal doors that swing inward, just like a real restaurant. There isn’t a window in them, though. I think there usually is. Anyway, I know what I’m going to find behind those doors, which is an industrial-style kitchen complete with metal prep tables and walk-in coolers. It seems very likely—again, just a rich people thing.
A low growl reaches me just as I’m about to push the doors open and go on a raiding party that hopefully Darius’ chef can forgive me for in the morning because I’ll undoubtedly leave a trace in my wake, even if I’m careful.
Low growls should not come from the kitchen at two in the morning.
I freeze, my hand brushing up against the metal door.
Either there are really big mice in there having a party, or someone is up to something they shouldn’t be doing. I don’t want to walk in on a middle-of-the-night tryst or really big mice doing really big mice things. Are really big mice actually rats? Okay, I’m probably really overtired. Nothing good comes from having an empty stomach, and this just proves it.
That low growl comes again, and this time, it’s followed by words. “Damn it. Now, listen up, and you listen well. You’re going to obey me, fucker.”
Oh, well, that sounds ominous.
Definitely something I seriously don’t want to intrude on. It sounds like someone is threatening someone else. And if that’s happening, it’s probably dangerous. But also, if that’s happening, I don’t think Darius would be very happy about it. Maybe I can just push open the door and steal a peek to get a better idea of what is going on.
“You will listen to me and listen well. You’re going to get in line and shape up, or else there are going to be consequences. I will break you open and lick out your insides. Don’t make me do that. It will go badly for both of us.”
Yikes! Everything in me says to run the other way, but someone could be in real trouble in there. I push on the door just a fraction, leaning my shoulder into it so that it gives way and makes the tiniest crack. However, what I see in there is nothing like what I expected I’d find.
A smile jumps to my lips as I spot Darius’ bowed back over, yup, a stainless-steel prep counter that extends along the whole middle part of the kitchen. There are pots dangling overhead, and on the table, there are various cooking implements. Everything is gleaming and spotlessly clean, including the grills on the far side, the big oven in the wall, a bank of cabinets, and a huge walk-in fridge. I pegged the rich-person industrial kitchen spot on.
My super hot husband, whom I have definitely not been thinking about all night, has a jar of jam in one hand, and the other is straining at the lid. When he angles to the side, I can see how red his face is. He’s probably been working at popping that lid for a while. When it wouldn’t come off, he did what I would do and resorted to threats. Clearly, the jam isn’t taking him seriously.
Suppressing a giggle, I push open the door and walk in. He doesn’t hear me or see me coming until I’m standing by his side. “Having some trouble?”
“Argh!” He leaps about half a mile vertically and sideways, and the jar nearly explodes out of his hands. “Shit, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry.” I grin sheepishly. “What are you doing down here? Late night craving?”
He gets an equally sheepish, adorable little boy look on his face, and my god, it makes him so handsome that I nearly lose the jar I’m not even holding. Thank goodness my hands are devoid of any objects because I’d send them crashing to the floor. His dark brown eyes are the color of chocolate, and the one kitchen light that’s been turned on illuminates the amber flecks in them. He’s rocking a major stubble shadow on his rigid jaw, and he’s clearly been sawing at his bottom lip with his top teeth because it’s red and swollen. My eyes go there immediately, and places that should not be tingling start tingling and lighting up. My whole body is awake now, and my mind soon catches up, making me realize I want to kiss him. I’d like to take that jar out of his hands and have him crack me open instead.