Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
7
Emily
Isaw Christian go out earlier, biting into a protein bar as he set out on his run, and I just hope he didn’t see me relieving myself in the woods. After all, he didn’t give me a choice last night. I had to use the restroom, but there was no way to do it without knocking on his door, and he made his feelings clear on that. So I went into the forest to take care of business, and it was frickin’ cold! My bare butt cheeks almost froze in the process, and tears were streaming down my face not from sorrow, but because of the biting wind.
Still, I’m determined to approach this situation with dignity. Maybe Christian Degas hates my guts, and resents my very presence in his cabin, but we have to tolerate each other at least for a little while. As a result, I set about straightening the small living room, and then begin cooking a big breakfast. Hopefully, that puts the grump into a better mood.
Sure enough, Christian returns after about an hour, and the first thing he does is inhale deeply of the appetizing aromas.
“Smells good,” he growls, shedding his beanie and jacket. A bunch of snow plops on the floor, ruining the mop job I just did, but I manage to hold my tongue.
“Bacon and eggs are ready, and pancakes are coming right up. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
The way to a man’s heart must be through his stomach because instead of lashing out at me, Christian does as he’s told. He lowers his massive form into a seat at the kitchen table and takes a sip of the piping hot coffee I’ve set out.
“Ummm,” he grunts in appreciation. I merely continue to cook with a wry smile on my face. I guess a hot meal on the table is the way to tame big, burly mountain men.
Still, we’ll see whether the food makes a difference in the long run. Right now, it certainly seems like it’s helping. Christian devours the bacon and eggs like a starving bear, and when I set the pancakes in front of him, he attacks those like he’s in desperate need of calories.
“Are you okay?” I ask while sitting down at the table with a mug of joe in my hand.
He looks up sharply, that handsome face tense.
“Why?”
I gesture to his plate.
“Well, you’ve already eaten two slices of toast, five strips of bacon, and a massive helping of scrambled eggs. Now, you’re eyeing my pancakes like they’re the equivalent of rare steak dripping with juices.”
He stabs the pancakes before shoveling a forkful into his mouth.
“I happen to like pancakes,” he says in a cold voice. “So what?”
Ugh, the asshole is back. But I manage to retain my cool.
“It’s fine,” I say in a civil voice. “It’s good that you happen to like pancakes because I happen to be good at making them. I can whip up blueberry pancakes, chocolate pancakes, and even strawberry-preserve filled flapjacks, provided you have strawberry preserve of course.”
“I have preserves,” he says in a surly tone without looking up. “They’re in the cabinet.”
I nod because I’ve already checked out the kitchen, and it’s stocked to the gills with every kind of ingredient a chef could dream of. Still, I’m bracingly polite as I smile.
“Great. I’m happy to cook for as long as I’m here. Call it earning my keep. But I need to talk to you about the facilities.”
Christian looks up then, his blue eyes piercing, before nodding curtly with that square jaw. There’s stubble on his chin from overnight growth, and I melt internally because he’s incredibly masculine and handsome. If only he weren’t such a fucking grouch.
But he speaks in a civil tone.
“Yes, I apologize for forgetting about that,” he says in a formal tone. “There’s only one bathroom in the cabin, and it’s connected to the master bedroom. You can use it. Just knock before coming in.”
“Thanks,” I say with a bright smile. “That’s just what I need because I practically froze my buns off last night going out into the woods. I appreciate it.”
His blue eyes flash.
“Sure, no problem,” he says in a dismissive tone before shoveling some more eggs down his throat. “But don’t disturb me because I’ll be doing work. Spreadsheets and zoom calls. Boring shit.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this was a vacation for you. You know, a nice getaway from the work grind.”
Christian snarls, his blue eyes almost feral.
“I’m a CEO. I own a fucking hotel. There’s no such thing as “getting away from work.” I live to make money and it’s not a burden. You’re the burden.”
Then, he gets up and stalks into the bedroom before slamming the door. I let out a sigh before standing up and collecting the dirty dishes to dump in the sink. Well, I guess our little truce is over already, if it ever began. Christian Degas hates my guts ... and has no trouble letting me know it.