Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
The crepe sizzles. I take a breath.
Center myself.
Remember why I’m here.
I’m here because my restaurant/home is underwater. My phone also went to a watery grave, and I own exactly one bra, one pair of panties, zero shoes, and the pair of fancy earrings I forgot to take off when I stripped out of my bridesmaid’s dress last night. I’m homeless, jobless, and wearing clothes that smell vaguely of Parker’s mom’s perfume.
And despite all that, I’m weirdly…happy?
Looking forward to Parker waking up and walking through that door?
Because I’ve been crushing on him for months, and I’m thrilled to the tips of my tits about the chance to shack up with him for a few weeks/months/as long as he’ll have me?
No. I’m just grateful to be alive. That’s all. This is post-traumatic euphoria—a documented neurological response to surviving a life-threatening event—nothing to be taken seriously.
“Get it together, DeWitt,” I tell myself. “You’re not a Disney princess shacking up with Prince Charming. You’re the nanny from Peter Pan. You should be upset that the kids are flying out the window, not thinking about how cute John looks in his top hat.”
Wasn’t the nanny a dog? the ricotta pipes up.
“Yes, but you know what I meant,” I say, flipping the crepe with the flair that got me through culinary school on scholarship after my father refused to release a dime of my college fund for training for a “dead-end job.”
Fuck.
Dad…
I’m sure he’s going to have plenty to say once he learns every dime of my investment is underwater. And yes, I have insurance, and it covers floods, but I’m going back to square one. Dad’s going to get to say “I told you so,” all over again, the way he did after Christian drained our joint savings and left me with five grand in credit card debt that wasn’t even mine.
“Fuck,” I mutter aloud, fighting tears as I flop the crepe onto a waiting plate. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Are my pans that bad?” Parker rumbles from the doorway. “The lady at the store said they were decent, but I never cook, so…”
I turn and there he is, my white knight, propped against the doorframe, looking like a cautionary tale about what happens when you give one human being too many gifts. No guy should be this hot and funny and hot and good-looking and talented and hot, all at the same time.
You said hot at least twice, the ricotta says in a smug voice that makes me wish I’d used lemon juice, after all.
Maybe a little curdling would have encouraged it to keep its mouth shut.
“No, they’re fine, I’m just…” I trail off with a shrug. “Just thinking post-flood thoughts.” My gaze drifts down, landing below the hem of his basketball shorts. I wince. “Ow. Your knee still looks bad.”
He glances down, as if just remembering that he has knees. “This old thing? It’s fine. Just embracing the eggplant aesthetic. I’ll be right as rain in no time.” He starts across the room, his limp worse than it was last night.
“Parker, you can barely walk.”
“I wonder where that phrase came from?” he continues, ignoring me. “There was nothing right about the rain last night. That rain was fucked up. I think I hate rain now, actually. I used to like it. Especially a rainy Sunday on the couch watching movies, but now, I’m anti-rain.”
“Sit.” I point at the kitchen table with my spatula. “Now.”
“Only if you’re planning on feeding me,” he says as he eases into the closest chair. “I’m hungry.”
“Of course, I’m planning to feed you. What kind of lame-ass guest do you take me for? How’s a lemon ricotta crepe with blackberries sound?”
“Sounds fan-fucking-tastic,” he says with a grin. “I’ll have two, please.”
“Two?” I arch a brow as I turn back to the stove. “Are you sure? They’re not small.”
“Two,” he maintains. “I’m a growing boy.”
I snort and pour another batch of batter into the pan. “Fine, but you’ll have to wait a few minutes. I only have one ready.”
“I’m fine with waiting. That’ll give us time to talk about rules for cohabitation. We’ve already established no boning, but there’s a lot more to a successful roomie experience than exerting the Herculean willpower needed to keep from jumping my bones, Makena.”
I grunt. “Herculean. That’s a big word for a sporty boy.”
“Thank you—I can read,” he says. “I can also cook, but I hate it. So, ground rule number one: If we share a meal, you do the cooking and I’ll do clean-up.”
“How about I do both?” I offer, flipping the crepe. “At least until you’re back on your feet? I don’t mind. I’d like to do both, honestly. My small way of paying you back for all the help.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll take you up on that, thanks. I have a maid who comes in once a week, so we don’t need to worry about other chore stuff. But I would ask that you avoid blowing your nose on my hand towels or clipping your toenails at the kitchen table.”