Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Hey!” she says cheerfully. She looks like a ball of sunshine, and not just because she’s highlighted by the golden summer sunlight streaming through the window. The coppery undertones in her wild auburn curls shine just as brightly as her sparkling green eyes. “Are you hungry?”
“I…”
“Did you eat on the way home? Pick something up? Go somewhere? Order in?”
Her care presses on something inside me that goes beyond even intimacy.
“No,” I admit. I’m starving, but the fact that she asked makes me feel like she’s offering, and I don’t want to be a bother. I’m perfectly capable of scrounging up something that I’ll barely taste anyway.
“Oh good! The grocery delivery people came again this afternoon. I didn’t even know that was a thing before, but of course it is. You can get anything delivered now. Uh…” Her cheeks flush pink. “I definitely wasn’t snooping as I was putting them away, and I wasn’t going to help myself or anything. I do have my own food now, and I’m not gleaning and thiefing yours anymore, but I did do this mental cooking inventory in my head, and I thought I could make meatballs with that spinach ravioli. It came with the sauce, so I wouldn’t even have to worry about messing it up.”
Thiefing. She used that word instead of thieving, almost…playfully.
My tongue is thicker than a pentastacker burger. My chest feels a little too tight, as do my button-up shirt and jeans. I chose my scruffiest pair of motorcycle boots today, seeing as I knew I’d be meeting with my parents first thing in the morning.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She hesitates. The thick fringe of her lashes sweeps up and down a few times over her shimmering eyes, which causes my heart to do a strange palpitation. “I mean, I already ate lunch and, uh, an early dinner, but if you’re offering, I won’t say no.”
“I’m offering. Feel free to help yourself to anything in the fridge. I’m not a grocery gatekeeper.”
That only seems to make her nervous. Her hand flutters by her face for a second before she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I…I noticed your door was open this morning. Your bedroom door. So I cleaned in there. The bathroom too. I hope that’s okay.”
I rake a hand over my beard, telling my body to stop doing the things it is doing, namely south of the beltline, at the way the word bedroom sounded sultry and husky when she said it.
I go for casual and sound more like a drowning duck. I doubt that should even be a thing, by the way. “Of course.”
Her nails drum the kitchen counter. My brain is in full asshole mode, and it conjures them scratching down my back, sinking into my ass, raking down my arms, and creating trails above my ink.
“It’s just that the door was always closed before.”
I make like a scientist and study the floor. Err…well, I focus on it like a scientist would focus on whatever is in the microscope. My god, my brain has reverted straight back to the mouse wheel. “I didn’t even realize I was doing that. I apologize. You have free access to anywhere in this house.”
“The basement is locked.” Her eyes narrow like she’s asking me if whatever I’m keeping down there is going to need police involvement and end up with her having to run while I chase her with a chainsaw, slasher style.
“It’s just the man cave.” I drop my gym bag off my shoulder and roll my neck, rubbing the back of it where a sudden knot of stress has gathered. “My parents and I…we obviously have a complicated relationship.”
Calling that an understatement of the year would be an understatement of the year, especially now that Amalphia knows what happened between me and them. The back of my neck prickles. I’m sweating just thinking about that conversation. We moved on after it, and Amalphia treated me like nothing even happened, but the truth is, it did. She knows now.
“They drop by sometimes,” I continue explaining. “Well, hardly ever, but it’s like…I keep the house the way it is for them. They see it and approve. The basement is my area. It’s not a mess or anything, but it’s personal. It’s fun. It’s a normal place where normal people do normal things. Like watch TV and game.”
“You could have that stuff up here,” she argues, rolling her eyes, but I can tell it’s not at me. I don’t think the high color on her cheekbones is for me either. She’s pissed off on my behalf, but she’s angry with my parents. “Who cares what they think?”
I’m silent for a beat too long. I do. Obviously. Though I have no idea why. She’s right. This is my house. I should be able to do what I want with it. The longer I stand there not saying anything, the more awkward things get until, finally, Amalphia lets out a strained laugh and shrugs.