Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Every pause loaded.
Every inch of space between us chosen.
I watch him move, plating dinner, and all I can think about is his mouth on my neck. My eyes can’t help but slide down his back… admire his wide shoulders, the narrow waist, the hips.
He glances over his shoulder at me then, quirking one brow, sleeves shoved up his forearms. He looks criminally competent. Dangerous in the most domestic way possible.
“You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” he says.
It’s not “all of a sudden.”
I’m quiet, in general, and he knows that.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
I take a sip of wine to buy time. It doesn’t help.
“You,” I admit reluctantly.
His mouth tilts at the corner and his dimple appears.
Crap.
“Good,” he says. “I was hoping that was the case.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“I can’t help it. I worked hard for this.”
“For what?” I gesture vaguely at his entire person. “The forearms? The sauce? Your smolder?”
He turns fully toward me now, leaning back against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest. It should be illegal for a man to look that composed while holding a wooden spoon.
“I have a smolder?”
He does.
He shifts the wooden spoon to his other hand like we’re conducting a serious discussion. “Define smolder.”
“You know exactly what I mean by smolder.”
“Do I? I’d still like to hear it.”
“Not until you’ve fed me.” I smile, pleased with myself for the pivot. No way am I admitting out loud that the crease between his brows and that constant broody stare get me wet.
I squirm in the chair, forcing my attention elsewhere. The kitchen is spotless. Of course it is. Everything has a place. Stainless steel gleaming. Not a single crumb in sight.
“Do you have any pets?” I ask, glancing around for signs of fur or chew toys or literally any other signs of life.
“No.”
Not surprising. Aaron is many things, but warm and fuzzy isn’t the first descriptor that comes to mind.
“I’ve always wanted a cat, though,” he tells me, setting a plate in front of me. “One of those fluffy gray ones that have a perpetual frown. Forever unimpressed.”
“Like you?”
He barely reacts to the barb—sets his own plate down, takes his seat beside me, and slowly turns his head in my direction.
“I don’t perpetually frown.”
“Sure you do,” I say, already twirling pasta onto my fork and letting it cool. “You always have a scowl like you’re disappointed in humanity.”
“That’s because I am.” His chest rumbles. “Everyone disappoints me these days but you. You’re a breath of sunshine and fresh air that I need in my lungs.”
He says it casually. Shoves pasta in his mouth and starts chewing, completely unbothered while I gape at him, as if he didn’t lob the emotional equivalent of a grenade across the counter.
My mouth falls open.
“Y-you cannot say things like that,” I inform him.
He looks up mid-chew and blinks, confused. “Like what?”
“Like I’m a b-breath of sunshine and fresh air you need in your lungs.”
He swallows. Takes a sip of wine to wash it down. “Why not? It’s true.”
My fork hovers uselessly over my plate. “That’s…” I shake my head. Clear my throat. “That’s not a n-normal thing to say between bites of pasta.”
He smirks around his fork. “You’d prefer I build up to it?”
“Yes,” I say emphatically. “A bit of warning would be nice.”
“Ten… nine… eight…” he begins counting dryly to tease me.
“Stop.”
He laughs softly as I stab another piece of pasta to keep my hands busy and grumble, “You can’t be disappointed in humanity and then randomly call me ‘sunshine.’”
Aaron grunts.
I try again. “What made you go home with me that first night? Now that I’m getting to know you, you don’t strike me as the type to have a one-night stand.”
His fork hovers over his plate, pasta hanging on for dear life.
“I’d had a horrible afternoon, a bad breakup, and…” He lets his sentence linger without finishing it.
I set my fork on the edge of my plate and muster up the courage to ask, “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you and your girlfriend break up?”
One second goes by.
Two.
Several more.
“She cheated.”
The words are flat and emotionless and matter-of-fact.
I gasp. Rest my hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry.”
“It happens,” he says quietly.
No, it doesn’t. Not like that. Not with the way his jaw tightens after he says it.
“Still,” I murmur. “That’s awful.”
His eyes stay on the counter for a beat longer before lifting to mine.
“It wasn’t just cheating,” he adds. “It was the entire situation.”
My stomach dips. “Oh.”
“It was with someone I trusted.”
That changes everything. I feel a palpable shift in the room.
“A friend?”
A muscle in his cheek ticks. “Yes.”
I ache for him. “That’s worse.”
“It is.”
“No wonder people disappoint you.” I let out another breath. “Because the ones who you trusted betrayed you.”
He studies me like he didn’t expect me to put that together.