Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“You roasted a chicken.”
He looks at me, deadpan. “That’s what I said.”
I blink. “Who are you and what have you done with Grizz McAvoy?”
He snorts, turning back to the pan. “Relax. I didn’t make a soufflé.”
“Don’t say soufflé like you know what that is,” I shoot back.
He points the spoon at me without turning fully around. “You want to eat or you want to interrogate me?”
“Both,” I say instantly.
He laughs again, low and quick, and it stirs emotions inside me, a warm tug that makes me feel like I’m standing too close to something I didn’t mean to touch.
He scoops the sautéed vegetables into a bowl, tosses the pasta in a quick sheen of oil, then opens the oven. He pulls the roasting pan forward with a towel and I catch a glimpse of golden skin, browned edges, juices bubbling at the bottom.
I swear my mouth waters.
He shuts the oven, sets the pan down, and finally turns fully toward me. “Don’t look so shocked,” he says. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m not shocked you can take care of yourself,” I say. “I’m shocked you can take care of… a meal.”
His gaze scans my face, then down to my mouth. “I should kiss that mouth to get you to shut up.”
“That would work for me,” I reply, breathless at the thought of his mouth on mine.
Instead, his eyes twinkle as he grins at me. “Later. But now… we eat.” He shifts back into motion, plating like a man who refuses to linger in a moment that might mean something.
I hover near the drawer with the cutlery.
“Where do you keep—” I start.
“Second drawer,” he says without looking. “Forks on the left.”
“You know where your forks are,” I say, impressed.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “It’s my apartment.”
“Yes, but men like you usually just grab whatever utensil is closest and call it a day.”
He gives me that look. “Men like me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” he says, but he’s smiling now, like he does when he’s about to needle me. “Explain it.”
I open the drawer, pull out two forks, two knives. “Men like you are supposed to live on protein shakes and ramen. And instead, I find that you’ve put significant effort into an amazing meal for me. It’s definitely out of character, not that I’m complaining. In fact, I very much appreciate it.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” He lets out a short laugh, then says, “But let’s be honest… I toiled in the kitchen and I wasn’t even sure if you were going to show up.”
I duck my head, forcing a bland expression. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
I risk a glance his way and find him leaning against the counter, casual on the surface, eyes penetrating. “Let’s just say you’ve got a history.”
“I’m not following,” I reply, turning to face him.
He lifts a skeptical brow, one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Really? You’re going to play dumb when I know damn well how devious you are.”
I snap my finger, eyes rounding in understanding. I knew this was coming. “You mean the Elias thing.”
He points at me, then taps his nose with his index finger. “Ding ding.”
I groan, sliding the cutlery onto plates. “First, that was not my history. That was one specific incident.”
He looks like he’s about to laugh again. “One specific incident where you were a no-show and left me alone with your best friend like it was a social experiment.”
“It was a social experiment,” I mutter, because lying is pointless.
His eyes narrow. “I knew it.”
“Oh please,” I say, trying to sound stern and failing because he’s enjoying himself. “You survived.”
“I did,” he agrees. “Barely.”
He snorts, then returns to the plates, adding a final sprinkle of green garnish over the vegetables. Parsley, probably. He’s basically a Food Network regular from what I see now.
“Okay,” I say, more softly now, because the teasing can’t quite cover the truth blooming in me. “This is… really impressive.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes as he slides one plate toward me. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” I say before I can stop myself.
That makes him glance up, and for a second the kitchen feels smaller, warmer.
Then he clears his throat and lifts his plate. “Come on.”
We walk toward the dining room—the one he almost never uses—and it’s faintly surreal seeing him lead the way as if he does this all the time. Like he doesn’t usually eat standing at the counter or on the couch with a game on mute.
The dining room is dim and quiet, the table too big for two people, the chairs too formal for the way Grizz usually exists in the world. The space seems expectant.
Tonight, it seems, I am that reason.
He sets his plate down and pulls out a chair for me—no fanfare, no performance, just an automatic gesture. Like he doesn’t realize that gesture is doing more to me than any kiss ever could.