Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Nate,” I say his name and he just walks up the steps and moves me away from the door. I watch him touch the keypad that turns blue, and then he punches in the numbers he told me and the sound of the lock turning open fills the silent front stoop. He struggles with the bags in his hands to open the door, and when he does, Whiskey is right there jumping on him.
“Back,” he orders him and he moves backward, giving him a chance to dump the bags. “Can you put him out?” he asks me. “I’m going to shovel the steps.”
“Yeah,” I reply softly as he walks past me and heads to the garage door. I watch him as I try to calm down the way my heart is hammering in my chest. I watch him until I feel my hand being moved and Whiskey shoving his nose to smell me. The sound of his tail hitting the door makes me look down at him.
“Do you want to go out?” I ask him and then he barks as he backs up again into the house. “Okay, let me get out of these boots,” I tell him, stomping my feet as I step inside and take off my jacket and my boots. “There you go,” I say, opening the back door and watching him sprint out. I turn and go to refill his bowl of water and then his food, before walking back to the front and picking up the bags of groceries Nate dumped before going out to shovel. I take them back into the kitchen and start unloading them, stopping to let Whiskey in, who goes directly for his food bowl.
I walk to the Christmas tree, plugging in the lights and seeing the tree light up the room as I make it back to the kitchen, leaving the ingredients out for the dinner we said we would make. The front door opens and then slams shut. Whiskey takes off like his life depends on it. The sound of his tail hitting the wall every time it wags makes me smile as I hear Nate chuckle. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Did you play in the snow?” he asks him, and then I hear his footsteps coming down the hall. “It’s coming down even harder out there.”
“I think we should hurry and make dinner before we lose power,” I suggest and he nods his head, walking to the sink and turning on the water to wash his hands.
“Just got off the phone with Joshua, the power is out at your parents’ and also at the hotel. They have the generator going, but the panic is starting to set in that the food might be ruined for the wedding if the caterer doesn’t have a generator.”
I gasp. “I’m not going to say this is a sign”—I put my hands on the counter—“but I’m not not saying it.” He chuckles. “Nate,” I call his name and he looks over at me, and for the first time in my life, looking at him makes breathing hard. For the first time in my life, I accept the fact Nate has been the man I’ve secretly been in love with. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. Not. One. Fucking. Clue.
“Elizabeth, why don’t we cook and then we can discuss it when we eat.”
“Okay,” I reply giving in to him. “Do you still want me to make my chicken with pasta?”
“Yes.” He shakes the water from his hand before grabbing the towel to dry his hands. “What can I do to help?”
“You can butterfly the chicken.” I point to the breast. “I’ll get the spices I need for it.” I walk over to the side and open the little cabinet next to the fridge and grab paprika, garlic powder, onion flakes, and dried thyme. “How do you have all these spices?” I ask him, taking the jars out and walking over to the other side of the island.
“Your mother gave me one of those spice racks that turn,” he explains as he takes out the cutting board and then a knife, “and then came over one day and decided that it didn’t look nice, so she stored the bottles and threw away the spinny thing.”
I chuckle. “That sounds nothing like my mother.” I walk over to the drawer I know he keeps his utensils in, grabbing a small bowl and mixing the spices.
“Okay, the chicken is done.” He looks at the cutting board and I walk over to inspect them.
“Not bad for a vet.” I wink at him, and he laughs. “We are going to need twelve cloves of garlic.”
He walks over to the fridge and opens it, taking the little jar from the fridge. “Crushed?”