Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
She shrugs. “Maybe a little.”
“Come on,” I say. “We can talk more over dinner.”
She glances toward Nora one last time, as if reluctant to leave her alone, before following me into the kitchen. Her gaze roams over the interior. It’s all open space, clean lines, and windows that spill light across the hardwood floors. There are gray marble counters, chrome fixtures, and glass cabinets.
As much as I want to know what she thinks of my home, I keep the question buried inside. She’s already a nervous ball of energy. I don’t need to freak her out by telling her that we could find a new place, one she likes better.
“Wine?” I ask, congratulating myself on keeping the convo light as I grab a glass from the cabinet.
“That would probably be a good idea. I need something to take the edge off.”
Once the wine is poured, I pass her a half-filled glass before leaning against the island and letting my gaze linger on her just long enough for color to bloom in her cheeks.
She can’t be totally ambivalent toward me if I can make her blush so easily.
And that, I can definitely work with.
“I promise, it won’t be that bad.”
With her gaze pinned to mine, she lifts the glass and takes a long sip.
“Do you like spaghetti?” I ask, changing the subject to safer terrain.
“Yeah. Where are you going to order from?”
I smirk. “Nowhere. I’m going to make it myself.”
She takes another sip of wine. “Well, color me surprised.”
My gaze flicks to her again as she settles at the marble island. I can’t say I don’t like the sight of Callie making herself at home in my kitchen, drinking a glass of wine while I cook us dinner.
It’s one I could definitely get used to.
She remains silent as I prep our meal. A big pot of water is filled and set on a burner to boil. From the fridge, I pull out a container filled with sauce I made a few days ago, and add it to a pan. Then I grab half a loaf of Italian bread, cut it lengthwise, and slather on a mixture of butter, garlic, and parmesan cheese. It doesn’t take long for the sauce to simmer and the water to boil. I add the fresh noodles I picked up at an Italian specialty market. Three minutes tops and they’ll be al dente.
Everything should come together around the same time. Spaghetti is an easy and comforting meal. The entire time I work, Callie sits on the stool across the island and watches me. It makes me wonder how often she finds herself being waited on instead of the one who does all the serving.
Way too often from the expression on her face.
“Do you cook a lot?” she asks.
“More than you’d think,” I say, stirring the sauce. “It was something I picked up after college. Believe it or not, takeout gets old. And it turns out that I actually like cooking. The rhythm of it is relaxing. It’s a great way to unwind at the end of the day.”
She hums into her wine. “I never would’ve guessed that.”
I glance over my shoulder and meet her inquisitive gaze. “I’m not sure why it should surprise you. It’s not like you know very much about me.”
With a frown, she sets her glass down with a clink. “There’s plenty I know. You were Zane’s friend, and that was more than enough.”
Once the pasta is ready, I serve our meal and set a plate in front of her before settling on a stool at the island.
I remind myself that changing Callie’s perception is going to take time and patience.
Luckily, I have enough of both.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I was his friend. But we haven’t been close for a while.”
She jerks her shoulders but doesn’t respond.
Instead of pushing the topic, I let it drop. We eat in silence for a few minutes. It’s the kind that simmers rather than settles.
She finishes about half of her dinner before setting her utensils down and saying quietly, “I really don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I study her, taking in the way she’s sitting ramrod straight, her muscles full of tension. It would be impossible not to notice the guarded edge that’s crept into her tone.
“You deserve better, Callie. You deserve more. And I want to be the one who gives it to you.”
Her fingers tighten around the delicate stem of her glass.
“Even when you were with him…” My voice drops as I swivel toward her. “I saw you. And I saw how he treated you.”
She blinks at me like she’s trying to process a foreign language.
“But there was nothing I could do,” I add. “You were with him, and I respected that. Even though I hated every fucking second of it.”