Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“I like it. It’s very artistic.”
It’s a good thing I’m not just artsy when it comes to baking. I’m actually fairly good at painting and drawing. I can’t sing to save my soul, and I’ve always wanted to try sewing, yet never have, but makeup? That’s pretty much just painting on a personal canvas.
He seems suddenly flustered. He sticks his thumbs in his suspenders but doesn’t pull them or snap them. He just leaves them there.
“So… pie?” I say.
“I hope it’s okay that we use store-bought crust.”
I gape at him. He has to be joking. But his face is impassive, and he doesn’t crack even the smallest smile. “That’s like… like blasphemy when it comes to pie,” I gasp.
“You’re pretty serious about this, aren’t you?”
Shit. “I just thought you’d have the basics.”
He snorts. “I’m a former chef. Of course I have the basics.”
“So we’re not using store-bought?”
“Never.” He winks at me, and I nearly swoon for real. “As you said, that’s blasphemy.”
Over on the record, the song changes to something upbeat with a good dose of hostile aggression behind it. The kind of song that embeds itself in your brain for an eternity. “Is this old?”
“A few years.”
“American?” I ask.
He hairy eyeballs me like I’m speaking blasphemy. “Nah. British.”
“I still can’t believe you like this.”
“Why? Because I’m old?”
Uh, hole, if you could just spontaneously open up right here in the incredible kitchen and gobble me up, I’d really appreciate it.
It’s even worse when the words are right there in my mouth to tell him that he’s not nearly that old. Not out of my age range, at any rate. And fuck. That’s a full fuck right there. Not just a fugget. I force myself to choke on the words. Instead, I say, “I just don’t meet many people who would like this kind of music.”
“I also like metal and rock.”
“They kind of go hand in hand, right?”
“And country,” he adds.
“Is there anything you don’t like?”
“Brussels sprouts and assholes.”
“Together?”
“Decidedly separate.”
“As in assholes or assholes?” I went there. I did it. This is getting wild, just like last night’s conversation. “Show me some moves,” I blurt, trying to cover up my embarrassing slip-up.
“Dance moves or cooking moves?”
I didn’t anticipate this. “Both? But dance moves first?”
Luca walks across the kitchen to grab a remote that turns a big TV on. I didn’t even notice the TV before. It sticks out pretty decently on the brick wall at the far side—the only part of the house that isn’t timber. I just didn’t look in that direction. I was too busy being entirely too captivated by Luca.
He types something in and gets a music video loaded up. He has to stop the record before he starts the TV. Then, in the middle of the kitchen, he strikes a pose that perfectly imitates the guy on the screen. The guy on the screen is hot in all his angry defiance, but he has nothing on Luca. Especially not when Luca starts the video and copies the guy’s moves exactly. They’re wild, all over the place, and erratic, and Luca has them down. I’m taken straight back to my teenage years, and holy freaking pies.
I’m in love.
Well, not really.
But kind of.
I’d panic if I weren’t laughing. Luca’s not trying to be sexy, but of course he is. I can’t believe he’s letting me see this. I’d rather have a fourteen-foot snake devour me whole than dance in front of another person. Even if I were good. Slick sweat forms on my skin just thinking about it.
Luca either doesn’t care or he’s fresh out of fucks to give.
He’s vibrantly alive, jerking, spasming, and gyrating his hips, standing on his toes, and falling all over the place.
If this is us making pies, then he’s my new favorite flavor.
Especially when the song goes on for a few minutes. It’s not all that cool in here, and Luca’s moving crazy fast. His black shirt starts to stick to his muscles, outlining a body so jacked that I’d bet on him having a personal trainer. He probably does. He mentioned something about physical therapy last night. If he doesn’t, then he has the discipline of an ancient Roman legionary.
Don’t get me started on that fantasy.
Shit, damn, shit.
The song finally ends, and Luca comes to a stop. He’s not breathing heavily, which speaks to his insane conditioning, but he’s pretty much wringing wet.
He throws his head back and laughs, melting me into a wetter puddle than he is. My ovaries pretty much get lockjaw from taking in the sight in front of me.
There’s a good chance I may have some kinks I knew nothing about before now. Sweaty man? I normally would have said eww, but Luca’s checking that box for me. I did notice the guy in the video spitting something at one point, and that’s a big ick, but if Luca did it? My ovaries would be giving a standing ovation, my vagina would be licking the bars of its cage, and I’d one thousand out of ten be here for it.