Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
I sit in one of the chairs at the small table in the dining nook. “So, you think you know who was out there?”
He nods. I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t say anything more, making me laugh softly. A brick wall indeed.
“So? Who do you think it was?” I finally ask.
“Travis,” he says. “The kid from the market.”
I sit back in the chair and shake my head. It’s so obvious I should have thought of it myself. But I was so caught up in my fear, I wasn’t thinking straight and couldn’t see the obvious answers staring me in the face.
“Of course,” I say. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
“It’s not easy to think clearly when you’re scared,” he says. “But in the morning, I’ll go down to the market and have a word with him and his boss.”
“What can I do to thank you for helping me?”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“Seriously, I know you didn’t have to come help me, but you did. And I’m grateful—”
“Really, don’t sweat it. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you. Not in my cabin,” he says. “My liability insurance would have gone through the roof.”
I stare at him for a moment before I see the corners of his mouth flicker upward.
“Did you just make a joke?” I ask.
“No. I don’t make jokes.”
And for the first time, Eli and I share a laugh. And his laugh is a deep, resonant rumble that slides deliciously across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It feels nice. Honestly, I wasn’t sure he was capable of laughing. I was starting to think he’d had whatever part of his brain that controls laughter removed.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Yeah. I can eat.”
He nods, and I follow him to the kitchen, where he stands in front of the refrigerator, staring into it for a long moment.
“I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid,” he says. “I’m also not used to cooking for anybody but myself. I can whip up some pancakes or an omelet if you’d like—”
“Tell you what,” I interrupt.
“To thank you for coming to my rescue—”
“He was gone. You hardly needed a rescue.”
“Regardless, you came,” I say. “I’m going to make you dinner.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“And you didn’t need to come running with a shotgun in hand to defend me,” I tell him. “But you did. So, the least I can do is make you dinner.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold a finger up to forestall whatever he’s about to say.
“I’m going to make you dinner. That’s all there is to it,” I tell him.
“I was just going to ask whether you prefer red or white wine?”
“Oh. Red, please,” I say and look around. “Is there a hidden wine cellar here?”
“I’ve got an underground cellar outside. It’s cooler down there, so I store food, wine, whatever I need to make it through if there’s a storm that washes out the road.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Often enough to make having my cellar practical,” he replies. “I’ll get a bottle.”
I smile. “Great.”
He walks out of the cabin, leaving me speechless. It’s not surprising to learn the man has an underground bunker. He kind of has that prepper vibe, to be honest. But knowing it’s not for the end of days but for a practical use that doesn’t involve the end of the world or a fight against the government does surprise me. It surprises me even more to know he has wine. It seems more refined than I would have expected from him. He’s obviously a far more complicated man than I imagined. And that makes him even more attractive to me.
With him outside fetching the wine, I start hunting through his refrigerator, cabinets, and pantry, taking a mental inventory of what he’s got on hand. I was expecting to find cans of beans and maybe the odd frozen meal. Obviously, I’ve stereotyped the man to death. But I am surprised to find that he’s well stocked with fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats, as well as all the regular staples. Instead of having to work a miracle with some ramen and beans, I might actually be able to put together a decent meal. So, I set to work.
About an hour later, Eli comes in, freshly showered and in jeans and a black t-shirt that’s stretched taut across his broad shoulders and chest, the short sleeves showcasing his thick biceps. I have to physically rip my eyes off the man. I clear my throat and finish setting the table.
“Wow, this smells amazing,” he says.
“It’s nothing fancy. Just a pasta dish my mom taught me like a thousand years ago.”
He smirks. “Emery, I’ve got socks older than you.”
That makes me laugh. “You’re an ass.”
“I’m aware.”
We sit down at the table, and as I dish out the pasta, he pours the wine, and I can’t help but think just how domestic the scene is. Even stranger than that is the fact that I like it.