Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Did you follow the instructions?”
“I tried, but things were getting done slower or faster than they were supposed to, so I had to tweak the temperature on the other things to get them to speed up, and then there was all this smoke, and the meatballs turned black on the outside but were raw on the inside.”
There was something adorable about this so-called titan of industry standing in the kitchen in his black apron, hair askew and a lost expression on his face. Sebastian walked into every situation with this unshakable air of confidence and control, but right now, this man was shook, and I couldn’t take it.
He glanced at me, and a crooked smile formed. “I guess I’m not selling myself too well right now as someone who can take care of you.”
“No, dearest. You are not a cook.” I crossed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around his waist. “But thankfully, you are very good at taking care of people in other ways.”
Sebastian’s face lit up. My heart skipped, and my fingers twisted in his shirt. “You called me dearest,” he whispered.
Oh, shit! I had. The word had slipped out. My cheeks burned, and I ducked my head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, no. You can’t take it back. I love it.” His arms closed, pulling me. He dipped his head, brushing a little kiss to my temple, then cheek, working his way to my lips. When our mouths met, it was in a series of small kisses, as if he were taking tiny sips, savoring the taste of me.
As his tongue slipped inside, I pulled away with a smirk. If we went down this route, he’d just end up fucking me on the counter amidst the burned food. We needed to at least have the pretense of a proper date.
“So, how about we see what we can salvage of this dinner?” I announced, turning to the stove. The answer to my question was…none of it.
Sebastian stood next to me with his hands on his hips. “I should have let Carol cook. She warned me I was in over my head, but I wanted to impress you. At least I was smart enough to let her make dessert.”
“You do amazing things every day that impress me at work. Why would you think spaghetti would impress me?”
Sebastian looked at me for a second in wonder and then his eyes closed, and all his features scrunched up as if he’d thought about his master plan and said “Duh.”
I patted him on the stomach. “It’s a good thing you’re cute.”
“Hey!” But even that came out with a laugh.
“Show me to your pantry. Let’s see if you used all your cook’s spaghetti.” At least he’d known to boil the noodles in water and hadn’t just started by throwing them into the sauce.
Sebastian pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen with a fancy frosted window. It was a surprisingly large closet with floor-to-ceiling shelves and not those basic wire shelves but wood ones. There was so much food and in packages I’d never seen. Was Sebastian having specialty foods flown in from overseas? I wanted to examine everything, but being in there was making my stomach growl.
“Ha! Perfect!” I snatched up a box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce. Those items appeared out of place among all the other fancy wrappers and glass jars as if she’d gotten them for Sebastian’s master plan. On my way out of the pantry, I spotted a loaf of Italian bread that probably had been delivered from the bakery that day. I snagged that as well, along with some olive oil.
“The point of having you over was not to have you cook for me,” Sebastian continued to mope.
“I’m not cooking for you. We’re cooking together. You get to throw out all the stuff you’ve made. I’m going to raid your fridge to see what you have in the way of fixings for salad.”
Once Sebastian cleaned away his first attempt, we got to work. Sebastian followed each of my instructions and asked dozens of questions about why I was doing what I was doing, as if he wanted to learn. The man was going to return to meals professionally cooked by a chef tomorrow. Why would he need to know any of this? But that was Sebastian in a nutshell. He wanted to understand anything he saw.
“Does this mean you grew up having a cook working for your family?” I asked as I prepared the garlic butter that would go on the bread before I toasted it in the oven.
“Actually, no. Not at all.” Sebastian paused in his tearing of the lettuce to gaze at me. “When I was a kid, my family existed right there on the edge of middle class. My parents took turns cooking our family meals. My family wouldn’t be considered rich until I was a senior in high school. Even then, my parents were reluctant to hire a cook. They enjoyed making meals for our little family. Plus, I always had a friend or two over to bum a meal. It was only later, after my sister and I moved out, that they hired a cook to come in and prepare meals four days out of the week.”