Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Sliding it over my head and then untucking my hair from the back of it, I go to the bathroom before walking over to the sink and washing my face. When I walk back to the bedroom, I find him still softly sleeping, and I take a second to watch him. He’s, without a doubt, the best man I know. It’s also, without a doubt, when I realize what I feel for him isn’t some sort of crush. It’s the real fucking deal. The minute my mind realizes what my heart is thinking, my stomach drops, and my hands start to get sweaty. I feel almost sick thinking about the fact I fell in love with him so quickly. Fuck, I love him.
I put my hand to my stomach, turning and making my way out of the bedroom and downstairs. They finished the stairs this week, and they’re more beautiful than I thought they would be. They stained each step in the garage and then just put them in. I look over at the empty living room, seeing all the built-in custom shelves Theo made me, and I’m still in awe. All my furniture is coming today, and I could not be more excited.
The house is finally going to be my home. I take a deep breath before turning and walking toward the kitchen. Turning the lights on, I go over and start the pot of coffee. I went all out on the most beautiful coffee maker that grinds up the beans right before it makes the coffee. I press the button for my latte before walking over and grabbing the milk. Pouring it in the milk frother, I then press the middle button to get it warmed up before I put it back and decide to start making Caleb breakfast.
I snatch up the bacon and then the sausage, putting it on the island before going to the oven and opening the bottom drawer to grab one of the baking dishes. I work peeling the potatoes, then slice and place them on the parchment paper, my mind trying not to think about what is going to happen once this is all over.
Where is this going to leave us? He moved in here to take care of me, but when I find out who my parents are, is he just going to go back to his house? Will we even see each other daily? The thought of not waking with him in the morning and not going to bed with him at night is something I don’t want to think about, yet it’s the only thing I can think about.
I take a sip of my coffee before I start on the pancakes, opting to make regular and blueberry. I’m at the stove, pouring the batter in the pan, while the smell of bacon is now filling the kitchen, when I hear footsteps coming toward me and smile softly to myself.
I hear him right before I feel his arm wrap around my stomach, and he buries his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. “You snuck out of bed,” he accuses me, his voice still heavy in sleep.
“I did,” I confirm. “Thought I was training for the American Gladiator contest to get out of your grip, though.” I take my hand with the spatula and flip the pancake.
“You could have woken me up.” He kisses my neck gently, pressing me tighter to him. “We could have made breakfast together.”
“I wanted to do it for you. Start the day with romance. I was even thinking of bringing you breakfast in bed to show you how romantic I can be.”
He snorts before his head moves from my neck. “You are lying right now.”
Flipping the other pancake, I turn to look at him, seeing him wearing his boxers and nothing else. My mouth literally waters as I look at his body. “I’m going to romance the fuck out of you tonight.”
“Are you?” He turns and walks toward the coffee machine, and I admire his ass, which, besides his cock, might be my favorite part of him.
“I feel you staring at me,” he notes, not even turning around.
“I’m admiring the view.” I use his words back at him every time I catch him looking at me.
“If you stayed in bed, you could have admired it more closely,” he points out, and I shake my head, turning when I hear the oven timer beep.
“Bacon and sausage are ready.” I pull the dishes out of the oven and place them on top of the stove.
“Do you want scrambled eggs or poached?” I ask, and he shrugs. “That isn’t an answer, Caleb.”
“I’ll eat whatever you cook.” He takes a sip from the coffee, leaning back on the counter.
“That isn’t what I asked you,” I huff out. “Scrambled or poached?”
“If I had to choose”—he puts the mug down beside him—“I would pick scrambled.”