Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
No. That’s a hard no. If the pie’s the limit, that’s the limit.
Keeping an open mind is always a good thing, though. Isn’t it?
“I should probably go shower,” he says.
Yeah, me too. Or stand in front of a fan to cool off the blistering heat that currently has my whole body smoldering.
“If you show me where I can find the stuff I need, I could start on this.” I’m not going to lie. Having a complete run of this kitchen makes me excited. Just not as excited as I would be if Luca were standing right beside me, shedding his shirt to cool down, tipping my face up, and looking at me as though I were the only person in the world.
Quick. Think about something else. Fast. And… go. Anytime now. Here we go.
My dad would love this place.
That’s it. Very good.
It would be his dream come true to bake in a commercial kitchen with all the state-of-the-art appliances. We make our family bakery work, but a lot of the equipment is older than him. Nostalgic, yes, but not always the most functional.
He points to a huge pantry beside a massive stainless steel fridge. It’s definitely industrial. I like that it doesn’t blend in with the cupboards, which are black and sleek. There are distinct stations in here, including more than one oven, a cooktop, numerous prep tables, a wine cooler on the far end, and two massive hammered bronze vent hoods that don’t match anything at all but are stunning works of art in themselves.
“You’ll find everything in there.” But he doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he hops up on the counter, crosses his feet at the ankles, and leans forward on his elbows. A sweaty lank of jet black hair falls in his face.
There’s absolutely no way he should be this hot when he looks like he just took a dip in the lake outside; he’s that drenched.
He shouldn’t be hot for any reason. He’s sixteen years older than me, and he’s Dad’s taboo best friend and all that, which I can’t seem to force my brain to remember.
He shouldn’t be.
But he is.
To the point where I can literally feel every thirsty thought I’ll ever have over the course of an entire lifetime crawling up into my brain, ready to make themselves known.
“I have to ask…” His voice startles me out of a lust-filled fog. “Even with all that makeup on, you look young.”
“I’m thirty,” I blurt. It’s what my fake ID says, but good god. It’s only a ten-year difference. No biggie, right?
Shovel, meet the hole I’m digging myself, deeper and fuggeting deeper.
He blows out a sigh. “That’s still very young.”
“Thirty in dog years, so that actually makes me somewhere around two hundred or something,” I quip.
He grunts, but he can’t keep it from turning into laughter.
“You’re a really good dancer. Really, really good.” So good that I can’t think of proper words to make a compliment. I just have to repeat the same one.
“Yes, well, when you’re stuck here all day with not much to do, it’s surprising what you can come up with. There are only so many hours of the day I can work on physical therapy or hit my home gym. Or when that’s wrapped up, ice plunges, bird watching, swimming, snowshoeing, mushroom picking, etcetera, etcetera.”
I don’t know anyone who actually says etcetera or pulls a face as soon as they do, grinning at their own jokes.
Is it possible that Luca is just a massive, adorable nerd? That just adds another point to his hotness scale, which is already tipping far, far to the more hotness than I can handle before I implode and do something entirely stupid and utterly regrettable side of the scale.
I’m someone who doesn’t usually find anyone attractive until I get to know them. Yes, there’s in-your-face beauty and hotness, but it’s easy to dismiss those after appreciating their artistic aura and moving on. Humor and kindness always score way higher for me. There’s nothing less attractive than having a gorgeous face and a smoking hot body yet being a total asswad.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you half of this,” he muses. He has to wipe away a few beads of sweat that trickle down from his hair and wander dangerously close to his eyes.
“I don’t mind. I also signed an NDA, so you’re good. My lips are legally gagged.”
“Tied. Gagging is for gag reflexes, which are in the throat,” he says.
The kitchen falls utterly silent as those words settle around us.
It’s not ten thousand, eight hundred, and sixty-seven point eight degrees of awkwardness in here at all.
My inner alarms start blaring. They’re not escape alarms, though. That would be too easy. They’re the kind of alarms that only make me panic as they come from some deep internal place inside me that has been more than lonely for a very long time. I’ve had relationships in the past, but true intimacy and real trust have been a rare commodity for me. It’s not because someone shattered me or taught me that people can’t be trusted. I guess I’ve just never been able to open that part of me up and give it to another person and be truly vulnerable. And it’s not because I was too young. I just never found the right person.