Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“It’s fine,” I murmured to my notes. “It’s going to be fine. If it doesn’t work, I’ll just have a mediocre list of recipes in a mediocre cookbook and no future as a professional chef in my own restaurant. No problem.”
Tiller had gotten up early to do physical therapy with the hand specialist. When someone named Winter Waites had been the only available PT in the area, I’d assumed a busty blond woman was going to show up at the door with an annoying giggle and a side job on Pornhub.
But no. It hadn’t been a busty blond. It had been a jacked one. The muscular guy had a scruffy blond beard and a nice enough haircut to make me give him the side-eye.
A hundred bucks said he was gay.
And he was currently in the basement gym alone with the hottest man on earth, the man I’d had in my mouth only two hours ago. The man who’d whispered words into my ear while I was sucking him off—words about wanting to slide his dick deep inside me and stay there forever.
I shuddered and wiggled my hips because I wasn’t thinking about that right now. I was working.
My back teeth ground together as I yanked the spinach package open. Green leaves spewed everywhere from the bag like it was rice-throwing time at a vegan wedding.
“Dammit,” I growled, trying my hardest not to remember the biceps on the physical therapist. “Why couldn’t it have been an old guy with yellow teeth and a giant, hairy mole on his… anywhere.”
I gathered up the spinach leaves and chucked them in a colander to rinse. This recipe needed my attention because if I couldn’t get it right today, it would need to be scrapped from the project.
Once everything was prepped, I started the roux. The faint sounds of acoustic guitar came from my Bluetooth speaker, and I noticed it had started to snow. The fire was low in the fireplace, but it still cracked and popped periodically. I could get used to this. The clean, crisp mountain air was a refreshing change from Houston’s heat and smog, and the small-town feel of Aster Valley had been a charming surprise. Rather, me finding it appealing had been the surprise.
I’d always pictured myself a city guy, but maybe things had changed in my life. While getting dressed up and going out to a nice restaurant was still a treat from time to time, I actually much preferred staying in and hanging out with good friends. These days, I tended to avoid crowds and any restaurant with a long wait.
Was I getting old or just settling into myself? Did it matter?
I folded in the last of the egg whites and poured the mixture into the soufflé dish before smoothing over the top and placing it in the oven. Now it was time to work on the pork tenderloin I was making to go with it.
This kitchen was a dream. I’d already moved some things around to make it work better for me, but overall, it didn’t need much to be perfect for me. The commercial aspects of it made me ache to cook for a crowd, and I found myself wishing our friends could come over for dinner if only so I could make a feast.
I daydreamed about running it as a bed-and-breakfast and cooking for my very own guests. Of course, in my dream Tiller ran it with me as if we were stereotypical gay dudes from a charming small town in New England. In the fictional scenario, the large red barn out back doubled as a special-event venue with views of the slopes and the trees, maybe even a field of wildflowers in summer.
It didn’t matter, a dream was a dream and what happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas. While I cooked, I mentally created menus for different seasons. There’d be a harvest-themed menu in autumn, a cozy comfort menu for winter, maybe a lighter, plant-based selection for spring, and then a fresh fruit and vegetable offering in summer. Maybe cutie-pie Truman at the spice shop would sell me some of the bounty from his gardens, or maybe he could at least show me how to grow some veggies myself.
I was deep into a mental image of Tiller shirtless and sweaty in my fictional veggie garden when the object of my lust appeared.
“Something smells good,” Tiller said, setting his water bottle on the counter as he walked up to me. “Is that your soufflé?”
He wrapped one arm around my waist before leaning in and kissing me full on the lips. I stared at him in shock and then turned to face the hot PT who’d followed him in.
“Oh,” Tiller said. “This is Winter. Did you meet him the other day? Winter, this is Michael Vining.”
I was still speechless from the semi-public kiss, so I simply stared at the man.