Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Some of the guys on the team enjoy cooking. Like River, the weird motherfucker.
I’m not one of them, though.
Hell, I can barely boil pasta without it turning into glue. But Rina’s here, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take care of her.
So, I follow the recipe on my phone like it’s gospel. Vegetables sizzle in one pan, quinoa simmers in a pot, and chicken bakes the way some smug food blogger swore would come out juicy.
Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that.
I stir and check the screen for the umpteenth time, praying I’m not about to ruin the whole damn dinner.
Still, I have to admit, the kitchen smells pretty good. Notes of garlic and herbs rise from the skillet, blending with the nutty scent of quinoa.
That alone feels like a win.
I glance over my shoulder and find Rina perched on a stool at the island, elbows propped on the counter, chin tilted to one side. She’s watching me with a skeptical frown.
The sight makes me grin.
When I set a plate in front of her, she stares down at it like she can’t decide whether to laugh, poke at it, or applaud. Before she can choose, I slide the fork into her hand.
“Dig in, baby. You’re carrying my kid, which means my job is making sure you eat.”
Her brows lift. “You’re incredibly bossy, you know that?”
“Yup.” I lean close enough to catch the faint, sweet scent of her shampoo. “And I’m starting to suspect you like my bossiness.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t argue.
Surprise flickers in her eyes as she takes a bite. “This is actually good.”
Pride swells inside me. I’ve scored game-winners that didn’t hit like this.
Who knows, maybe I’ll start cooking more often.
While she eats, I drag the oversized box from the entryway and set it on the counter. Inside is the haul from my early-morning panic shopping spree. Three pregnancy books, prenatal vitamins, ginger gum, and a handful of teas for nausea. I line everything up on the island.
Her fork clatters against the plate. “What’s all this?”
“What does it look like?” I flip open one of the books, scanning the table of contents like a scouting report. “Homework. I need to know what’s happening to your body so I can help you through it.”
She freezes, her eyes wide.
That look, filled with equal parts surprise and emotion, finds its mark before I can brace for it.
“What’s wrong? Did you really think I wouldn’t care or want to be involved?” I ask quietly.
Her throat works as she swallows. “Honestly? I wasn’t sure. You’ve always been content to play the field. You’re not known in the league as the Big O for nothing.”
I step closer until her knees brush my thighs. “For a time, maybe I was. But then I found someone worth settling down for. And I’ve been trying to convince her to take a chance on me ever since.”
Her gaze darts away, the walls she’s always hiding behind slipping for half a second before she deflects. “So… cooking. I didn’t realize you could do it.”
Instead of pursuing the conversation, I let her off the hook.
For now.
I shrug as a hint of a smile quirks my lips. “I’m learning. Give me a little time, and I’ll be whipping up culinary masterpieces for you to sample.”
We fall into an easy rhythm over dinner, the tension between us easing but never quite disappearing. Every brush of her hand, every laugh that slips out, winds me tighter. By the time she leans back with a contented sigh, I can’t keep my distance for another minute.
After dinner, I scoop her into my arms before she can argue.
“Oliver!” she says with a laugh, swatting my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I read that rest and relaxation are key.” I carry her into the bathroom. “So, I’m making sure you follow doctor’s orders and get plenty of it.”
I set her on the marble counter, and the gasp that slips from her lips hits me square in the chest. The sound is faint, barely there, but it lodges deep, twisting something inside me I didn’t even know was waiting to unravel.
Her fingers grip the edge of the counter, knuckles pale against the cool stone, and for a moment, all I can do is stare as uncertainty flickers behind her lashes. Heat builds beneath my skin until my pulse thunders in my veins.
I turn toward the shower and twist the handle, letting the rush of water fill the silence. Steam rises, curling in lazy, ghostlike tendrils that blur the edges of the room.
When I turn back, she’s still sitting where I left her. Her eyes have softened a fraction, the wariness dimming but not completely gone. It lingers in the way her shoulders tense and she stills, as if bracing for something she can’t name.
That quiet guardedness tugs at me. I want to ease it from her body, piece by fragile piece, and prove that she doesn’t have to fight so hard to be strong. Not when she’s with me. Every instinct I have is telling me to reach for her and strip away whatever walls she’s still hiding behind until all that’s left is trust.