Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 68177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
“You showed Chris my work.”
He smiles. “I showed him your work, and he agreed with me and thought we should send Hanna down to try to convince you to meet with him.” He disappears as he bends at the waist, and then a moment later, he comes up with a pan covered with foil, placing it on the counter.
“You should know that didn’t convince me. All it did was make me mad.”
“I got that from your message.” He sighs, getting out two plates, and then he goes to the fridge, grabbing two bowls filled with salad.
“Do you want help?” I might be annoyed, but I don’t want to be rude.
“You can pick a bottle of wine,” he says then lifts his chin in the direction of the dining table. “I have a wine room. You’ll see it now that you know you’re looking for it.”
“A wine room?” I repeat in disbelief.
“A wine room.” He grins.
“You have too much money.” I step away from the kitchen, hearing him laugh as I head around the corner, seeing a large wood-framed door with tinted glass. I walk toward it and the light turns on, allowing the bottles of wine inside to be seen. I open the door and step into the room, overwhelmed while looking around at the shelves lining the walls. I don’t even know what kind of wine goes with what foods—not that it would help if I did, since I don’t know what we’re eating.
Grabbing one of the bottles, I take it with me out of the room toward the kitchen but stop when a large painting catches my attention. I tip my head one way then the other, trying to understand what I’m looking at. I’m not sure, but it kind of looks like a woman sitting naked on a toilet, but that would be weird.
“Sweetheart, don’t even bother trying to figure out what it is,” Braxton says, and I look over to find him leaning his shoulder against the wall, watching me.
“Is it a woman on the toilet?”
“It could be.” He shrugs, pushing off the wall to step toward me then takes the bottle of wine before grasping my hand. “Are you ready to eat?”
“Why do you have a painting of a woman on a toilet in your dining room?” I ask when he pulls out a stool in a silent demand for me to sit, so I do.
“My mom painted it. She took an art class a few years ago and convinced herself that she’s now an artist,” he says, leaving me on the opposite side of the counter as he walks back around into the kitchen, still speaking. “She gave me that painting as a housewarming gift, and then she hung it. I don’t have the heart to take it or the other pieces she’s hung down.”
He stops to inspects the bottle of wine I chose, and I blurt, “I don’t know anything about wine.”
“You might not, but you chose well. This exact bottle of Penfolds Grange Hermitage was auctioned off a couple years ago for close to fifty grand.”
My jaw drops. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” he says as he places some kind of apparatus onto the top of the bottle and starts to press the button.
I shoot up out of my chair when he turns it on and climb up on the island. “What are you doing?”
“Opening the wine.” He eyes me where I’m now balanced on top of the counter, reaching toward him.
“You can’t open that.” I try to grab it, but I’m too far away.
“Why not?”
“Because you just said it cost fifty thousand dollars. You don’t ingest something that cost fifty thousand dollars.”
“Dakota, it’s wine. It’s meant to be enjoyed.”
“Well, my wine pallet isn’t refined enough to enjoy it, so give it to someone who at least loves wine enough to know what kind of wine goes best with meat or noodles.”
“You enjoy wine.” He presses the button, and the contraption makes a whirring sound that sends my heart into my stomach.
“I can’t believe you’re opening it,” I groan, falling face-forward onto the counter. “That’s more than what most people make in a year and enough money to put a kid through college.”
“It’s also just wine,” he says, and I lift my head to glare at him. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t buy it. It was a gift.”
“No, that does not make me feel better. And who gives gifts like that?”
“People with too much money,” he replies, smiling, and I nod, because he’s right. Only people with way too much money would give someone a bottle of wine that costs so much. “Do you want to sit on the counter to eat or on the stool?” he asks, and I sigh, getting down.
Instead of taking a seat, I walk around into the kitchen and help him get things together, placing our salads and forks on the island while he pours the wine and dishes out some kind of chicken with a creamy-looking sauce over wild rice. After everything is done, we both take a seat, and I pick up my wineglass to inspect it for the sparkle of magic that must be hidden in the glass.