Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“Who knows? Maybe it does,” Bron says.
“I saw that the kitchen is fully stocked. Is it okay if I cook something, or does the housekeeper do that?”
“You can do whatever you want,” Conal says. “You like to cook?”
“I’m more of a baker than a cook, but I like making things. Do you want me to make something for lunch?”
“We don’t eat much when we get in the groove,” Bron says, “but I’d love some cookies or muffins.”
“Cookies and muffins just so happen to be my specialty,” I tell him. His answering smile makes my insides flutter. “Does everyone like chocolate?”
“We love it,” Rafe says, “but not while we’re recording. It affects our vocal cords.” Conal nods in agreement.
“Oh, I’m glad I asked. Okay; I’ll go see what I can whip up.”
All three men give me meaningful looks, but only Conal gives me a hug and another kiss before I leave, leading me to assume that our unconventional arrangement isn’t going to be general knowledge.
Back in the kitchen, I find all the ingredients I need to make a batch of apple-spice muffins, which are my family’s favorite. It takes a while to locate all the equipment I need, and there’s a learning curve on the high-tech oven, but in the end, the muffins turn out great.
When they’re cool enough to eat, I pile them into a basket and fill a pitcher with the cucumber water. The men had bottles of water when I saw them earlier, but maybe they’ve gone through them by now.
I slip quietly into the studio, where they’re working on a different song, and I can see they’ve gotten into the groove that Bron was talking about. They’re absorbed, their concentration is almost absolute, and they barely notice me, though they do send me distracted smiles and thanks when I set the muffins and water down.
Rather than staying to watch and risk disrupting them, I tiptoe away without saying a word.
At a loss for what to do next, I eventually decide to watch a movie. It’s beyond bizarre to have a mini theater like this to myself. It only seats twelve people, but there’s a huge screen, an excellent sound system, padded leather reclining chairs, and even a popcorn machine. The movie is fine, but not engaging enough to distract me from my surroundings for very long.
I snacked on fruit and cheese while the muffins were baking, but my stomach tells me it’s going to want more food sometime soon. Even if the men are in the zone, they’ll need to eat, too, so I return to the kitchen to consider my options.
As I’m looking through drawers in the refrigerator, a man I’ve never seen before walks in like he owns the place. He’s in his 50s, with dark blond hair graying at the temples and a hardened expression. He fixes me with a flat stare. “You must be Hazel.”
My stomach tenses. “Yes. Who are you?”
He picks up an apple from the bowl on the counter, looks at it for a second, then puts it back. “Roddy Filmore. The Pythons’ manager.”
“Oh.” I’d better be polite to him, even if he is giving me a bad feeling. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He looks me up and down and grunts something that might be a reciprocal sentiment. When he widens his focus to take in the entire kitchen, I say, “I’m just about to make dinner. Will you be eating with us?”
This earns me a longer look, paired with a curiously blank expression. “What are you making?” he says at last.
Good question. “Do you know if the band has any favorite foods?” I ask on a whim. “They’ve been in the studio all day, and I don’t want to bother them.”
After a brief hesitation, Roddy says, “They eat a lot of crap. I’m sure whatever you make will be an improvement.”
There’s a strange pang in my heart at the thought of my men (My men! Listen to me!) not eating right. I have a sudden strong urge to take care of them, even though I know they’re grown men who know how to look after themselves.
“What about you?” I ask Roddy. “Any requests?”
With a half-laugh, he says, “I eat a lot of crap, too.” After a pause, he adds, “Nothing too heavy, yeah? Maybe just some sandwiches.”
When I smile and say, “Okay,” he shoots me another odd look and leaves the kitchen.
Sandwiches are actually a great idea, since I have no idea how many people will be eating with us or what everyone likes. Rather than making individual sandwiches, I arrange a big platter with all of the meats and cheeses I can find, along with other fixings. I fill another platter with various breads, and gather condiments together in the front of the refrigerator so I can bring them out when we’re ready to eat.