Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
He dropped his gaze back to the items he had pulled out of the fridge. “Would you like a sandwich?” he asked.
Not really.
“Would you like to be alone?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alone anymore though. Being around someone who was feeling the same ache inside while trying to manage life felt comforting. Not so lost or abandoned.
He lifted his gaze again. “I don’t think so.”
Did he feel that too? The relief almost easing slightly on the tight grip that seemed to have my chest at all times.
“Okay, then, yes, I’d like a sandwich. But you need bread,” I replied.
The corner of his lips quirked. “The pantry. I’ll get it.”
I watched him walk over to a door and open it, then disappear inside. Letting out a deep breath, I went to stand on the other side of the counter. He had gotten out a lot of items, but not any pickles.
“White, wheat, multigrain, croissants? What’s your poison?” he called out.
“White,” I replied. “Thank you.”
He emerged, carrying two brown bags in his hands. “I like white, too, but there was also sourdough. The bakery that Wilma gets it from makes killer sourdough.”
I wasn’t sure, but I thought Wilma may be the housekeeper/cook. I’d heard her mentioned at breakfast, but I had yet to see her. She was probably lost in one of the many rooms she had to clean.
He dropped both loaves onto the counter. “You need anything else? I think there is some ham in there if you don’t like turkey.”
“Um, do you have pickles?” I asked him.
“Probably five different kinds. What do you want?”
“Dill, please,” I replied. “The ones cut up in little round slices if you have those.”
He grinned, then opened the door to the fridge again and scanned the shelf before pulling out a jar. “Got ’em,” he said, setting it on the counter.
“Thanks.”
He handed me a knife. “I’ll let you slice your bread. Not sure how thin or thick you like it.”
I took it and the loaf he pushed toward me. While I took out the bread, my stomach rumbled a little. I’d barely eaten today, and suddenly, I was feeling hunger. Once I had my two slices, Forge held out his hand to take the knife back.
The cheese was in a fancy container, and I reached to take the lid off, then get two pieces. A fork appeared in front of me.
“For your pickle,” Forge said.
Oh, I didn’t need just one pickle. Twisting the lid off the jar, I stabbed several of them, then let the juice drip back inside before placing them on one slice of my bread. The cheese was on the other. Needing a few more, I went back in to get another forkful. I could feel Forge’s gaze on me as I began to line up the pickles until they covered the bread. My cheeks felt warm.
When I was finished, I finally glanced up at him. His brows were raised as he stared at my sandwich, then at me.
“You sure you got enough pickles on that incredibly weird sandwich?”
An unexpected giggle bubbled out of me. It was short though from sheer surprise that I’d laughed. I hadn’t been sure I would ever smile again.
“I like pickles.”
He chuckled this time. “No shit. I’m just glad you didn’t ask for mayo, or I’d have had to leave the room.”
Scrunching my nose, I shook my head. “Ew. No.”
He nodded. “We agree on something.”
Picking up my plate, I moved it down a little before pulling out a stool and having a seat.
“Drink preference? We have everything. You can check out the fridge and pantry if you aren’t sure.”
Standing back up, I went to get a drink. He didn’t have to serve me. I already knew I wanted a water.
“If you need something stronger, we’ve got just about every wine, whiskey, vodka, and cocktail shit, but I don’t know how to make one.”
“Water is good,” I told him.
“You sure? The whiskey is better.”
I smiled. Again.
“I don’t think I like whiskey,” I told him. I’d only tried it in Coke.
“Please, for the love of God, don’t tell Than or Ransom that. They’ll take it as their mission to change your mind.”
Why would they care?
“They’re big supporters of it then?”
“Their family owns a distillery. It’s in the Carvers’ blood to make whiskey. They’ve been doing it for generations. Back when it was bootlegging and illegal.”
That made sense. Mafias had been a thing back then. I’d thought they had gone away, but apparently not. They’d just evolved.
“Is that how they got involved in the Mafia?” I asked him.
He stilled, and his eyes shot back up to me from the sandwich he’d been focused on building. “What do you know?” His words weren’t harsh, but they weren’t warm and friendly.
Shit. Why hadn’t Calvin told me it was a secret?