Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“She didn’t want to miss out on a snuggle session,” Nave said. “How was your nap?”
“What day is it?” I asked, dragging a chuckle out of him.
“That good, huh? You knocked out for two hours.”
“And you just stayed here?”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
I shifted off of him, rolling onto my back, and doing a long stretch. Nave didn’t miss the opportunity to let his gaze move down over my bare legs.
But as soon as Edith leapt off of him, he folded up.
“So. Dinner. What are you in the mood for?”
“Pasta,” I said immediately. “I think it’s safe to assume that from now until I state otherwise, I always want pasta.”
“What kind of pasta?”
“You mean shape?”
“Well, yes, that is an important question.”
“I don’t like rotini or farfalle. But I like everything else from thick linguine to whisper-thin angel hair.”
“I have to add pinwheels to the list of no-go pastas. And I could do without a shell.”
“Unless they’re stuffed,” I clarified.
“Which brings me to the rest of my question. Do you just want pasta? Or do you want something layered like baked ziti or lasagna? Or stuffed like tortellini or ravioli?”
“Are you ordering?”
“No. I’m cooking.”
“Oh, so, like, frozen ravioli? Or canned?”
“We’re going to pretend you didn’t just suggest I would serve you canned ravioli.”
“I practically existed on that stuff as a kid,” I admitted. And I was always thankful to the people who donated those cans to the food pantry instead of things that would need other ingredients to make a full meal. Even if I’d known how to cook, our stove never worked. And, sure, the microwave was always on the fritz too, but you could learn to tolerate cold canned ravioli. And it filled up your belly.
“Well, I can do better than canned. Or frozen.”
“You’re going to actually… make it? Do they sell empty ravioli shells?”
“Probably. But, no. I’m going to make the dough too.”
“That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, shooting me a smirk. “And what if I add that I am going to make homemade garlic bread? From scratch?”
“Now you’re just dirty-talking me.” He was still laughing when I climbed over him to get off the bed. “Come on. You have work to do.”
And he was happy to get right to it.
While I sat there mesmerized, watching his scarred hands effortlessly mix and roll dough, chop vegetables (because I “had” to have something healthy with my meal now), and make sauce. Like from actual fresh tomatoes. There was a fractionating amount of crushing, seasoning, mixing, and seasoning some more going into it.
Did I occasionally get distracted by the way the muscles in his arms flexed? Sure. And did my panties almost ignite when he lifted a sauce-dipped finger in his mouth to taste the product? Absolutely.
But no matter how much my libido was begging to make him take a break, the other part of me was way too excited about a home-cooked meal to interrupt.
“I feel like I should offer to help. But I have no idea what to do.”
“We could do some cooking lessons over the next few months, if you want,” he offered. “But for right now, I like just having your company.”
“You mentioned your dad cooking. Does your mom enjoy it too?”
“She cooks. But everyone just prefers Dad’s cooking more. Ma makes a mean sugar cookie, though.”
“And now that you’ve dropped that little bomb, I’m going to need some sugar cookies too. I’ve never had one.”
“A sugar cookie?” he asked, whipping around, a spatula still in hand.
“A homemade cookie, period.”
“Oh, baby,” he said, giving me a sad look as he shook his head. “I’m going to blow your mind then.”
“I can’t wait.”
We talked for a while about food, mostly about how his little family unit really revolved around it, about how his dad used to be the cook for the whole clubhouse when he’d been a more active member.
The conversation eventually shifted to all the different aunts, uncles, and cousins and their love stories.
“Are you disappointed?” I asked when he was finally done recounting them all.
“Disappointed in what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That I didn’t show up after months of stalking you to try to fulfill a lifelong mission to kill you for what you did to me and my family when you were a spy? Or with a bomb strapped to my chest? Or dramatically running down the street in the middle of a hurricane…”
“Eh, I think our story seems to have some craziness too. Even if I wasn’t a part of the action-packed part of it.”
“You are probably imagining it as a lot crazier than it was.”
“I’m not asking,” Nave said, glancing over at me. “But if you ever want to tell someone what you went through, I’m all ears.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
PAST
Lolly
It started with the doorknob.
Which is not the most exciting escape story, but nothing else that followed could have happened if I hadn’t been doing my daily cleaning chores that involved cleaning the doorknobs.