Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have said anything. Is the table set?”
I exhale. “Yes. That’s one thing I did right. All I have to do is light the candles.”
“Perfect. Sounds like the meal will be ready at the right time. You’ve got this, Ruby Duby. Take a deep breath.”
“The pine nuts! The timer is at zero, but I didn’t hear a beep. When did it go off?”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re fine.”
I open the oven and a plume of smoke greets me, but luckily, the pine nuts look dark brown but not burned. “They look okay. Catastrophe averted.”
“Breathe, babe.”
I pull the pine nuts out, finish up the chicken, and throw the pasta into my boiling water, and Laila talks me off the ledge the whole time.
“Okay, time to make the pesto,” I murmur.
“Home stretch,” Laila says. “You’ve got this.”
I swipe into my recipe for guidance again and my heart sinks. “Shit, Laila. It says I need a ‘food processor’ for this next part, whatever that is. What does a food processor look like? What does it do?” I frantically scan Kendrick’s granite kitchen counter. “I wouldn’t even know one if it bit me in the ass. Does Kendrick even have one?”
“Probably not. But if he does, it’s probably not out on the counter. My mother doesn’t keep hers out. She just grabs it whenever she needs it. Check his cupboards.”
“For what, though? What am I even looking for? Can you text me a photo of one?”
“You can use a blender, instead, for a job this small. You know what a blender looks like, right?”
“Yes! And I know for a fact Kendrick has one to make his protein shakes.” I start frantically opening cabinets, but no dice. So, I drag a chair into the kitchen to check the highest shelves. “I found the blender!” I shout excitedly. “It’s on a top shelf, way, way in the back, but I see it!”
“Yay!”
I get onto my tippy toes and reach as far back as I can. “What the heck?” I mutter. “How on earth is this the most convenient place to put something he uses all the time?”
“Men,” Laila says with a scoff. “God knows how their brains work with all that testosterone telling them to do stupid shit.”
I’ve got the barest of grasps on the blender’s base with my fingertips, and I carefully drag it toward me, intending to catch it when it tips toward me off the shelf. But when that moment comes, catastrophe strikes: the base of the thing detaches and falls smack into my upturned face.
I scream loudly, waiting for searing pain to strike from whatever broken bone the fallen object has inflicted upon me. But to my surprise, the pain doesn’t come, and whatever fell caused only a benign clunking sound when it hit the countertop beneath my upturned face.
I open my eyes and discover the blender is still completely intact and sitting on the edge of the shelf—and the thing that fell onto the countertop is a book. And not just any book. It’s Kendrick’s journal. At the realization, I scream again.
“What’s happening?” Laila shouts. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. I got hit by Kendrick’s lyrics notebook!”
“Ruby!”
“Sorry, but this is like winning the lottery, babe.”
Greedily, I get down from the chair and stare at the journal on the counter. Yes, I promised not to open it ever again, and I’ve kept that promise.
Until now.
Because, come on, now that it’s fallen from the sky and hit me in the head, literally, how could Kendrick possibly blame me for flipping it open and finally reading “Spank”?
Okay, yes, that would be a betrayal of his confidence, technically. But a tiny one, all things considered. Especially now that he’s spanked my ass, fucked my ass, and made me squirt all over his cock. I mean, come on, I’m only human, after all. And we’ve come a long, long way since he demanded that promise from me. Surely it’s expired by now, right? Or at least become obsolete?
“I have to go,” I choke out, my fingers twitching and my eyes trained on the forbidden book.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great. I just have to go now.”
“My god, you’re a screamer,” Laila mutters with a laugh. “Lucky Kendrick.”
I can’t laugh at Laila’s joke; I’m too wound up by the sight of that notebook sitting on the counter, screaming at me to pick it up right fucking now.
“Thank you for everything, Laila.”
“Anything for you. Keep me posted!”
“I will.”
After saying goodbye, I disconnect the call, grab the journal breathlessly, and furiously begin flipping its pages toward the back. In record speed, I find the entry for “Spank.” And for a split second, I look up, feeling guilty. But after a short moment of sainthood, my baser instincts take over again, and I give myself permission to return to Kendrick’s messy, urgent handwriting.