Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
The past few days have been eye-opening, and not necessarily in a bad way. I’ve taken some time to reflect, collect evidence of Roy’s philandering and seemingly allergic reaction to paying his share of our bills, and seek the assistance of a divorce attorney.
It’s been good. I’m finding my feet relatively fast and am hopeful the stability I’ve discovered with single life continues on a relatively smooth track.
In a matter of hours, my kitchen switches from spotlessly clean to overrun with baked goods.
Baking is as natural as breathing for me. It was my first love. I wanted to open a bakery, but Roy steered me toward event catering instead. He said events such as weddings and bar mitzvahs attract a surcharge bakers would cream their pants to earn in a week, and that I’d be less tempted to sample the merchandise when surrounded by brides vying to fit into their size-zero dresses and mothers wanting to top the MILF rankings for their neighborhood.
I huff before loading ingredients from memory into the stainless-steel mixing bowl attached to the KitchenAid for the umpteenth time this afternoon.
I’m so used to catering for an audience that I triple the quantities without thinking. My small oven isn’t handling the excess. It’s been chugging along all afternoon, but it feels good to cook for happiness again instead of it seeming like a chore.
I splash a little Japanese whisky and yuzu into my current mix before taking a swig out of the almost empty bottle. It’s sour enough to add a husky giggle to my words when I answer Tempy’s silent reprimand with words. “It could be worse. I could have paired it with tequila.”
When she remains staring with her adorable head slanted, I chug down another mouthful of yuzu before adding an extra dollop to the batter whirling around the bowl.
I’m on the cusp of tipsy with barely two sips, so you can imagine how bad my dizziness becomes when my doorbell rings.
Tempy is up on her feet in an instant, barking excitedly and racing for the door.
Panic swirls inside me for half a second before I straighten the rod in my spine by rolling back my shoulders.
Roy’s betrayal didn’t break me.
It made me stronger.
Furthermore, Tempy can’t stand Roy. She growled when he forgot his keys and needed to knock. However, she’s so excited right now she looks on the verge of making a mess on my recently mopped floor.
My strength has grown so stupendously over the past three days that I almost pull the door from the hinges when I yank it open.
“If you’ve finally come for your things, you’re too late. I already donated them. A charity worker is collecting them first thing tomorrow morning.” My sentence ends with a hiccup, my body as equally nervous as it is excited when I realize the person standing on the other side of the door isn’t my cheating, low-life, soon-to-be ex. It is the man I am confident can make me forget him with nothing but a smirk. “Nero… Um. Hello.”
While opening the door, wordlessly welcoming him into my home, I give my head a stern talking to. I’m not a blubbering underage idiot with no life experience. I am an independent woman… who could come just by looking at this man’s deliriously handsome face.
Jesus, Mir. Get a grip!
After swishing my tongue around to encourage some wetness for the fire in my throat, I say, “Come in. Please.”
I bite back a moan when he accepts my offer. He smells delicious, his scent a mixture of danger and tranquility. It is stronger than the goodies I’ve been baking over the past several hours and has me suddenly starving.
“That’s Tempy,” I introduce when she pops up on her hind legs to welcome Nero with half a dozen spins and paw waves. “She’s a little starved of attention.”
A deliciously immoral shiver rolls down my spine when Nero laughs while dragging his hand over Tempy’s head. He tickles under her chin with his chunky tattooed fingers, making my skin slick with envy.
I squeeze my thighs together while recalling how wonderous his fingers are, now too feeling starved of attention I had no clue I craved so desperately until now.
6
NERO
The reason for my visit slips my mind when Miranda guides us toward her kitchen. She’s dressed casually in leggings that show off every inch of her curves and an oversized shirt that does a shit job of covering up said curves since it is knotted in the middle of her stomach.
She’s shoeless and sockless, and even if I hadn’t heard her declaration while she ripped her door from its hinges, I’d still be aware she has no intention of taking back her cheating spouse.
Anything non-girlie and bulky has been packed and stored next to the entryway table. If the singe marks on the lawn, and the spitfire stubbornness in her eyes, are anything to go by, anything small and perishable is now soot.