Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I swear it’s ten thousand degrees in here, even though the central air is pumping.
“My mom gets off work in an hour and a half,” I whisper-yell over the burbling coffee maker. “I told her I’d make dinner. I was going to put a roast in, peel the potatoes, and bake buns. Uh… I…”
“You like cooking.”
I have to turn around, but it’s a mistake because I get another eyeful of Wilder’s tight red pants. It’s not like he could have changed them in the past four minutes, but I’m still mentally unprepared for the hotness level.
I quickly get my eyes back up to his face.
I’m also mentally unprepared to go there, but alas, it’s better than staring at the danger zone of his pants, where his package is clearly defined, compliments of them being that tight.
That was a statement, not a question.
“I do like cooking,” I mutter-parrot.
“I didn’t know that.”
“No.”
“Does anyone?”
I shrug. “Not really. I like to make things less about me and more about my job. More about everyone else.”
Woof Woof Dog lumbers into the kitchen, his tongue lolling out. His food and water dishes are under the island overhang. He’s followed in by Pumpkin, who comes in at the speed of orange cat light, hits the counter, scatters all the papers I had on there all over the place, skids, tries to catch himself, hangs off the island like he’s grasping the edge of a cliff, and then lets go. He lands right on his rump instead of his feet, gets up, gives me a scathing look as though I’m somehow responsible for his embarrassment, and races back off.
Wilder stares at me, and I stare back at him.
“You need to be gone before my mom gets home.” Wow. Classy. I whip around and snatch the coffee pot off the maker long before the drip has stopped. Droplets sizzle down onto the hot plate. I pour it into two mugs to let it sit and shove the pot back under the stream.
“Can I… help you with anything?” Wilder asks.
I whirl and duck down, gathering all the scattered papers and turning them face down so Wilder can’t see what I was doing earlier. Not that looking for a job is shameful or a secret. I straighten slowly, my face flaming, my heart pounding, my chest feeling like a cage, and my whole body slick with sweat caused by finally giving in to the realization that it’s utterly unfair that a man like Wilder exists. He’s not perfect, but he’s great in so many ways. He’s a total freaking ten in my books, and I’ve had years to subliminally register all the ways he’d be my perfect match.
He’s still always going to be untouchable.
“Can I help you with dinner?” he clarifies politely when I’m clearly not tracking.
“Err…” I bite down on my bottom lip, mentally calculating how long it takes coffee to cool down so I can busy myself by putting ice in the cups. “I don’t do much with the roast. I just slick it up, spice it, and stuff it in the oven.”
“Can I do that? Slick, spice, and stuff it in the oven?”
Fuck on a diamond-back duck. Is there even such a thing? Why on earth does it sound so sexual when he says it? My vagina gives him two thumbs up, and my panties get two degrees past soaked.
“S-sure.”
I’m officially dead. Gone and combusted, turned to dust.
I somehow make it to the fridge, though it’s not graceful. I snatch the pork loin out and toss the huge hunk of meat straight onto the island. It’s in tight plastic packing, but it makes a cold and wet slapping noise that sounds suspiciously like a hard spanking.
There’s a small chance I might need to recalibrate my gray matter.
I’m a flurry of buzzing, sizzling energy as I grab spices, the bottle of oil, and the roasting pan.
“I’d love to watch you make buns,” Wilder says.
I barely make it to the island before everything slips out of my hands, but at least nothing breaks when they all come crashing down.
Well, besides my hormones.
They’ve officially reached a new pinnacle.
This morning, everything was so complicated and uncomplicated at the same time. It was an uncomplicated complicated. I wish I could go back to just past eight. I wish Wilder weren’t here. If I never saw him again, I could get on with my life, pick up the pieces of myself, get real, and get on with it.
Yup. Just keep thinking so…
I make flapping hand gestures at the roast, and Wilder gets the picture. He tackles that while I locate a few things from the pantry. Flour, yeast, sugar, and the bag of potatoes. I have to make a pit stop at the fridge and then snatch a few things out of the cupboards.
After that, I test the coffee, but it hasn’t cooled off at all.