Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I stare around me, at the paintings, at the photographs. I catch sight of what must be Adler when he was little surrounded by men and women, an entire group photograph taken down on the beach. I recognize his father, the former owner of the Sunrise, now deceased, and his mother, looking so young. Mrs. Costa’s always around the Sunrise—she’s as sweet as they come and is something like a mascot to the staff. She’s treated like a queen, given whatever she wants, never charged a dime, and always makes sure to leaves huge tips wherever she goes. Everyone loves Mrs. Costa.
Though the father, he was a piece of work. Stern like his son, except borderline abusive to staff that stepped out of line. I’ve heard stories of him screaming at waitresses for dropping drinks or berating dealers for making minor etiquette mistakes.
Though Adler runs the Sunrise with strict rules, at least he’s fair.
Nobody gets shouted at. Nobody gets straight up abused.
Everything I’ve heard suggests Adler’s a much better boss than his father was.
I step out of the hall and shuffle left straight into a large, gourmet kitchen. The island’s huge, and there’s Adler, standing in front of the stove poking with a wooden spoon at something that smells absolutely incredible. He’s frowning and wipes his forehead with a dishtowel.
“Take a seat,” he says, not looking over. Like the guy’s clairvoyant or something and knows where I am.
I clear my throat, not moving. “Uh, sorry, is this a bad time?” I didn’t expect to find him cooking, of all things. It’s like seeing him take off his shirt or something: way too intimate.
Though seeing him shirtless wouldn’t be so bad.
“I’m almost done. Take a seat.” He still hasn’t look over, fully concentrating on whatever’s in the Dutch oven. I find a tall chair at the island and manage to lever myself onto it with a satisfied and grateful sigh. That makes him finally glance over, a deep scowl on his lips.
“Feet hurt,” I say, feeling deeply uncomfortable, but I learned a long time ago that it doesn’t do me any good to pretend like my disability doesn’t exist.
Generally, people want to help. They’re awkward about it, but most people mean well.
He grunts in reply then begins to slice a loaf of thick, crusty bread.
The kitchen smells incredible. Tomatoes, spices, onion, garlic. I’m practically vibrating with excitement as he sets up two large bowls, places in two big pieces of bread each, and spoons something saucy and red inside. He slides one bowl over to me along with a fork and a knife.
“Shakshuka,” he says, taking the other bowl and placing it down in front of him. “Enjoy.”
“Shak-what?” I ask, bewildered. What’s actually happening right now? I expected another stern lecture—followed by something a bit raunchy—not whatever this is.
“Dinner,” he says, gesturing with a fork. “It’s a Mediterranean dish. Onions and peppers sautéed until soft, garlic thrown in, spices added, then everything gets stewed with some tomatoes. Once the sauce is done, you crack in a few eggs, cover the pot, let the eggs set, and that’s it. Eat with good bread.” He leans forward over his bowl, dips in the bread, and gets to work.
I stare at him. Then I look at the food.
I’m having trouble processing everything. We’re alone in the kitchen—which means Adler made this all himself. The remnants of his cooking are left all over: used cutting board, dirty knives. But that can’t be right. Adler Costa’s rich, spoiled, and above all, too busy to learn how to make food like this.
Except… it’s real.
It’s sitting in a bowl in front of me.
I’m sitting in Adler’s mysterious inner sanctum, and he cooked me dinner.
Nobody’s going to believe any of this happened. I might as well tell them his place looked like the Serengeti.
I take a tentative bite. And it’s absolutely delicious.
I gape at the guy as he glances up. “Holy crap,” I say. “Did you seriously make this?”
“I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that tone.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just, I assumed you’d have a personal chef.”
“I do, but I chose to give him the night off.” He pauses his ravenous demolition of the meal. “You don’t like it?”
“No, no, it’s actually amazing,” I say with an awkward laugh. “I just didn’t realize you were inviting me over for dinner.”
His eyebrows raise. “What did you think this was then?”
“I don’t know, I mean, it’s late. Who eats at ten?”
“People that work fifteen hours a day.”
“Right.” I shift awkwardly in my chair. “I mean, I guess I just figured, uh, you know, you invite a girl over this late—” My cheeks turn bright red.
His lips curl into a smile. “Did you think this was something else?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. My cheeks turn burning red. I could scream, I’m so mortified. “No, I mean, I assumed you were pissed at me, you know, because of my brother.”