Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
“Did you go to college?” he asked from his bedroom.
“Yes, sir. I went to NYU,” I responded.
He let out a whistle. “What did you major in?”
“Business. And I almost flunked out, it was so boring. But I already knew I wanted to start my own business, so…”
I wasn’t sure I’d retained a quarter of everything I’d learned back then, but I’d gotten by, and I’d like to think I was doing fairly well today.
“It must’ve worked,” he noted as he returned. I got stuck on watching him tie the drawstrings of his sweatpants. “You’re practically a superstar.”
“If you exaggerate any more, you’re going to pull a muscle,” I told him.
He laughed and sat down next to me, just a foot or two away. “Are you gonna choose a show or something? Otherwise, I’m putting on The Weather Channel.”
I handed him the remote. “Have at it, weather guy.”
“Thanks, foot fetishist.”
I mock-scowled at him, to which he grinned and shoveled ziti into his mouth.
“I don’t have a foot fetish,” I stated.
I grabbed my soup first, hoping it could trigger my appetite. I needed to eat, and everything looked delicious, but I wasn’t super hungry.
“I’m sure you don’t,” he responded with a shrug. “I kinda do.”
I side-eyed him. Was he serious?
He shot me a look, as if he wanted to roll his eyes. “It’s not sexual.”
“Fetishes are usually sexual. Otherwise, it’s a hobby.”
“Fine. I have a foot hobby.”
I laughed. “Okay, it still sounds sexual.”
He chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “Fuckin’ brat. I’d imagine it’s not unlike a massage therapist’s interest in giving massages. I like to give foot rubs.” He shrugged. “I’m not gonna lie and say it doesn’t matter who I’m doing it for. I’d prefer a beautiful woman over my old man, but I’ve sure as shit done it to him more. He’ll come down to the gym sometimes when his arthritis acts up.”
I should have considered that. Ethan had studied all this in college, and he was big on rehabilitation and recovery. It made perfect sense that he knew his way around massages too.
“I keep reminding him we have a massage therapist on staff, but he says he wouldn’t put an innocent stranger through that trauma.”
I cracked up and almost choked on my tomato soup. “Good news, it stopped sounding sexual.”
That made him laugh too. “Well, thank fuck.”
I grinned to myself and let the food steal my attention for a bit. Ethan was serious about The Weather Channel, and I found it soothing. My daddy used to keep that on around the clock, almost.
“How’s the food?”
“So good.” I took another spoonful. “Unfortunately, my appetite isn’t great. But my energy levels feel low.”
“When was your last meal?”
I had to think about it. “Umm, around three or so…?”
He nodded once. “Then only eat what you want. I can make you tea after,” he said. “Some lemon and honey will give you enough energy to last you till breakfast.”
That sounded good, but he was already going to struggle to get me out of here.
Okay, that wasn’t actually true, but damn, he could be a little less accommodating.
“Actually, could I bother you for some painkillers?” I asked hesitantly. “I took an ibuprofen about an hour ago, but it’s done nothing so far.”
“Yeah, of course.” He crammed some bread into his mouth and rose to his feet. “What’s your poison? I have ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and naproxen, I think.”
“The first two, please.”
“Comin’ right up.” He disappeared into his bedroom for a beat before he returned with two bottles. “When I get sick, I party it up with 400 milligrams of ibuprofen and 1000 milligrams of acetaminophen. I don’t fuck around with man colds.”
I chuckled tiredly. “Clearly not.” I washed them down with some Coke Zero and hoped it would get me through the night.
Ethan didn’t struggle with his appetite, at least. While my eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and the cushions became even more comfortable, it seemed, he finished his food and then polished off my plate as well.
I liked a man with a big appetite. Sue me.
“So, other than ice cream with pretzels, you don’t even like desserts?” I asked, then promptly yawned.
“Pretty much, with one exception.” He slumped back against the cushions too, very close to me, and patted his stomach as he let out a long breath. His gaze remained fixed on the TV, where a storm was moving across Vancouver. “I can go to town on a good crumble. Not pie or cobbler, mind you. Crumble. It has to be crumble.”
“Did you say crumble?”
“Crumble,” he confirmed.
I snickered and yawned again.
“I’ll make you a crumble next week,” I said, watching the screen too. Had my parents been alive, this would’ve been the point when Daddy called Chloe and me to warn us about the storm that wasn’t even coming our way. That’d been his thing. He’d called with weather reports.