Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
I scrunch my brows together. “That sounds fake to me.”
“It’s not.” She pushes at my arm, and I let it fall away. “Besides, I’m thirsty and maybe even a little hungry.”
“I’ll make you soup.” I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into the living room. A press of a button and the painting on the wall lowers to reveal a television.
“Really?” Slater says.
“It’s cool.” I shrug. The high tech things please me like the disappearing kitchen stools and the hidden television. “The one in the bedroom comes down from the ceiling.” I hand her the remote and cover her legs with a blanket.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a guy that likes fancy technological things.”
“How so?”
“You’re a chef. You cook with your hands. That seems analog to me.”
“I make foam out of broccoli juice.”
She allows a small smile to escape. “Okay, you’re right. I guess we have a lot to learn about each other.”
“We can fill out questionnaires.”
This time a laugh bursts forth. I blink in confusion. Her laughter dies out. “Oh, you were serious,” she says.
Irritated she isn’t on board with what I thought was a great idea, I ask her stiffly, “Do you have food allergies?”
“No. I like everything.”
“Great,” I say in a tone that implies anything but. In the kitchen, I pull out a chicken. After washing it and putting it in a pot to boil, I start preparing the dough for noodles. Maybe it’s the written kind of questionnaire she doesn’t like. She answered the doctor’s questions easily enough. I should have looked up a getting-to-know-you scenario along with how to get married. I can do that later after I’m done making the soup, I decide.
“I’m glad you’ve given up on the marriage thing,” Slater says when I bring a tray over to her. I wait until she swallows her first bite.
“In my culture, when you eat something made by the hand of another, it’s an agreement of marriage.”
“Bullshit,” she says, dropping the spoon.
I allow a smile to spread across my face. “We’re basically hitched, Mrs. Neal.”
Chapter Seven
SLATER
Iswear I can’t keep up with the things that come out of this man’s mouth. He knows how to shock the hell out of me, that’s for sure. We’ve gone from him telling me he was a virgin and we needed to get married, then to us filling out a questionnaire, and now according to him, we’re already married.
“We aren’t basically anything. I don’t even like you.” I place the bowl down on the fancy coffee table, which might be a piece of art for all I know.
“You need to eat.” He picks the bowl back up.
"Besides, if that is true, then you're married to a million people, Brooks. You prepare food for everyone." Got you, Mr. I Have an Answer for Everything. I smile inwardly so as not to gloat.
"It's different. We're in my home, and no one else helped prepare the food." He’s really trying to sell this.
"You've never had someone else here who you cooked for?" I challenge. I don't know why, because it's silly. We aren't practically married. I should eat my soup because it is wonderful and ignore the married crap. I should bask in someone taking care of me for once.
"I don't care to have people in my home."
"I'm here. The doctor was," I point out, my eyes dropping to the soup bowl in his hand. It looks and smells so delicious.
"The doctor is an exception, and I might have people here for certain things, but they don't stay or linger." I want to call him on this, but he might be telling the truth. “But if you need something, I won’t hesitate to bring someone here to make that happen for you.”
Brooks brings the spoon to my mouth. I open it, letting him feed me a bite. His eyes linger on my lips. I lick them, and that same heated expression he'd gotten that night at the bar takes over his face. He’s not the only one affected, either.
"Give me this." I take the bowl from his hand. "I'll feed myself." Why is him feeding me so damn erotic? Also, it's endearing, and Brooks isn't endearing. He used me. I need to keep reminding myself of that little fact. No, that's a big freaking fact.
“Now, why don’t you like me?”
“Seriously?” I can’t even believe he has the audacity to act as though he doesn’t know exactly why.
“You think I used you.”
“Think? I saw the folder on your desk in the hotel. My name was in it.”
"I turned down that offer, and I had no clue who you were until I hired that private investigator. I don't use social media. I've heard of your reviews and what they can do for a restaurant, but I didn't have a face to go with the name of who ran My Favorite Feeds."