Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Still, each time I called, she showed up.
Sometimes with Bastian in tow.
But lately, almost always with that damn driver of hers.
Unlike Bass, who seemed more focused on Saff’s behavior, Serano’s keen-eyed gaze seemed zeroed in on me.
So much so that I made sure I didn’t stand too close or touch her like I wanted to.
I was starting to think that the connection we’d shared that last time she was at my apartment was wholly one-sided.
Until I was standing in my kitchen—home early on a Saturday night since Teresa cut out early for a family birthday—trying to distract myself from obsessively thinking about Saff by doing something I hadn’t done in months: cooking dinner, and in my periphery, I caught the movement as the doors slid open.
Not another soul in the world had a key other than me.
And Saff.
Even Teresa had to borrow mine if she needed to pop by my place.
I froze mid-chop, watching as Saff stepped slowly out, brows pinched as the sound of my music and the scent of cooking onions and garlic met her nose.
Her head turned, looking right at me.
“You cook?”
“I do,” I said, going ahead and letting myself drink her in.
She was casual in a pair of gray leggings, sneakers, and a black tee. Her long blue hair spilled across her shoulders.
“What do you cook?”
“Depends on the night. Tonight, I am cooking creamy garlic and onion pasta with shrimp. I’ll have more than enough for two.”
Saff shifted her feet, her plans to get in, get me in bed, then get back out clearly thwarted. But her hand went to her stomach, and I watched her suck in a greedy breath.
Whether she wanted to admit it or not, her interest was piqued.
“There’s wine, if you want it,” I said, gesturing toward the open bottle of chardonnay the sauce was going to require.
“I’m more of a whiskey person,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the wine.
“Help yourself,” I said, gesturing toward the mini bar in the dining area beside the kitchen.
She did just that, pouring a double, then moving to stand at the far end of the black marble rainfall island, watching me as she raised her glass for a sip.
“Where’d you learn to cook? Your mom?”
“No. My mom didn’t cook.”
“Ever?”
“I was lucky if there was anything edible in the house,” I admitted. “Half of what I ate came from the free school lunch and the occasional stolen bag of chips or candy from the corner store.”
I never told anyone about my mom.
But something told me that Saff would understand. If not relate.
“I know a thing or two about shitty moms.”
“Did yours cook?”
“Sure. Yeah. She cooked a lot of meth.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. I hadn’t expected that.
“Yeah. That was basically all the sustenance she needed. So when the teachers noticed my bones sticking out of my skin, they called the ‘good people’ at child services to come and take me away.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight. But a mean and bitter eight. Unsurprisingly, most foster families didn’t want a mean and bitter kid sitting at their dinner table.”
“You bounced around a lot?”
“I’m pretty sure I held the record.”
“Were the foster homes worse than your actual home?”
To that, she snorted. “That’s a complicated question. One of those ‘devil you know’ type situations. Living with my mom sucked. But at least it was consistent. I never knew what a new foster home was going to be like.”
“My mom preferred benzos. And when she couldn’t afford that anymore, she switched to heroin.”
Saff’s gaze bore into mine, seeing something I was sure no one else had ever been able to. “When did you cut out?”
“Fifteen. You?”
“Sixteen.”
“Where’d you go?” I asked, turning to mix the onions and garlic, then salting the pasta water.
“The street. There was nowhere else to go. You?”
“I had a… friend,” I told her. I wasn’t exactly lying. But I wasn’t giving her the whole truth either. She wasn’t the only one with secrets. Hell, mine were likely much worse than hers. “He took me in, gave me some work. It let me slowly save and work toward… all this,” I said, waving around at the apartment.
“Did they teach you to cook too?”
“No, this I did myself. Started with adding things to my ramen to try to make it better. But as money for more and better ingredients came in, my skills grew. It’s relaxing. I cooked a lot that first year when I worked on my first club.”
“Is everything alright with the club?” she asked, tensing.
“The club is fine,” I assured her, reaching for my glass of wine and taking a sip. “T had to leave work early tonight. And I wasn’t going to get much done without her, so I came home. Only… I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not working.”
“Really? I am an expert at being home. I’d never leave if I didn’t have to.”