Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
She had assured me that her recipe was foolproof and there was no way I could mess this up.
I wasn’t so sure.
The meat sauce simmered on the stove, releasing a rich aroma that made my stomach growl. I stirred it carefully, adding a little bit of red wine, though I doubted Arabella would approve of my modifications.
I’d always been one to put my own spin on things, even when following instructions.
“Patience,” I murmured to myself, covering the pot and turning down the heat.
I glanced at the clock. Adrian wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. Perfect timing to finish cooking and perhaps work on my writing.
My laptop sat open on the kitchen island, the cursor in the middle of my screen, on my unfinished chapter.
My few readers had been waiting for weeks, the comments section filled with increasingly desperate pleas for an update.
Guilt gnawed at me for my prolonged absence.
Unfortunately, being trapped in a marriage with Adrian Salvatore hadn’t exactly inspired creative flow.
Until now…
I felt like I could write again.
I settled onto the barstool and scanned the last few paragraphs I had written. I had been struggling with it for days, unable to capture the raw emotion I wanted to convey.
But now as I began typing, the words flowed more easily than they had in a long time.
The scene was coming together flawlessly.
And perhaps I was projecting, but writing had always been my escape, my way of processing the chaos around me.
I lost track of time, the kitchen filling with the scent of simmering sauce as my fingers flew across the keyboard. When I finally paused to check the meat, it was perfect—thick and fragrant, exactly as Arabella had described.
“Okay,” I whispered, wiping my hands on my apron. “Time to assemble.”
I set the laptop aside, leaving the chapter open as I moved to the counter where I had laid out the lasagna noodles, ricotta mixture, and fresh mozzarella.
Carefully, I spread a thin layer of sauce on the bottom of the baking dish, then arranged the lasagna noodles in a single layer. I repeated the layers with the ricotta and mozzarella.
When I finally placed the last layer of cheese on top, I felt a small surge of pride. It looked beautiful and if it tasted half as good as it looked, I’d consider it a success.
Maybe the flavors would come together in the oven. I hoped.
I turned to place the dish in the oven, and my heart nearly stopped.
Adrian leaned against the kitchen island, his eyes fixed on my laptop screen. He was dressed casually in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, his hair slightly disheveled as if he’d been running his hands through it.
Thud.
My stomach dipped with panic, horror washing over me as I realized what he was looking at. What he was reading.
How long had he been standing there? How much had he read?
Oh my God.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, rushing forward to slam the laptop closed. Heat flooded my face as mortification washed over me.
“Reading,” he replied casually, his lips curving into an amused smile. “My wife is a writer.”
“No...” My voice came out as a strangled whisper. The denial was weak, pathetic even to my own ears.
This was my secret, my escape from the suffocating reality of our world.
I didn’t want anyone to know, especially not my husband.
I didn’t trust him enough for that yet.
“There’s nothing shameful in being a writer,” Adrian said, moving closer. “It’s an intelligent hobby. Or career, if you’re serious about it.”
I bit my lip, staying silent.
What could I say?
He had seen a part of me I had tried so hard to hide. To keep to myself.
Adrian has slowly uncovered so many layers of me and I was starting to hate how much he knew about me and how little I knew about him.
I refused to respond as I turned back to the oven, the lasagna dish still in my hands. I slid it into the preheated oven, setting the timer with unnecessary force, hoping the task would hide my embarrassment.
The kitchen fell silent except for the ticking of the timer. I could feel Adrian’s presence behind me, his eyes boring into my back as I busied myself with cleaning the counter, wiping away nonexistent spills.
Perhaps if I ignored him, he would leave.
But Adrian had never been one to respect boundaries.
“I didn’t expect to find you in the kitchen,” Adrian’s voice filled the space, a deep cadence I had grown used to hearing.
“I gave them the day off,” I explained, trying to keep my voice steady. “I thought I’d try cooking something.”
“Hmm,” he said in response.
I felt his presence behind me before I heard him move, the warmth of his body, the subtle shift in the air. He crowded against my back, his chest pressing lightly against my shoulders as he leaned over me.