Total pages in book: 191
Estimated words: 182070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
I snorted as I set my palm down flat on the white granite shot through with swirls of gray and brown. It was a nice countertop. Durable. If I ever got a studio just for filming, I’d want something like it. The one at my apartment was plain white, but I still loved it. “At the beginning, when I first started posting stuff online, people said I looked like a munchkin. That they could barely see me, so I wear heels now. Big old platform ones so I don’t look like I’m still in middle school.” Honestly, I’d gotten used to short jokes since I’d been like… eight. They were nothing new. They weren’t even annoying anymore. I wasn’t that short.
CJ lifted an impressive eyebrow at the same time he raised another scone to his mouth. “How tall are you?”
“How tall are you?”
His big, unexpected laugh made me grin a second before the sounds of Zac’s voice carried into the kitchen. Stretching to the side, I glanced around to find him standing in the doorway that I had learned the week before led to a staircase. The same staircase that led upstairs.
He was on the phone, looking in our direction. I could see that much. And he was arguing. I could hear that much.
“…is the problem? I’m doing what I have to do,” his low voice spat, irritation in every inch of his tone. In jeans and a light brown T-shirt, Zac stood there with one hand on the doorframe and his other one at his side balled into a fist.
When we made eye contact, I waved at him.
He gave me a small nod before that fisted hand came up and he held up an index finger.
Someone was on an important call. Okay. No problem.
“No, we agreed on it. No.” He ducked his head again to grumble into the receiver. He had it pretty much pressed against his mouth. That’s how I knew he was mad. I’d had conversations like that with my ex. I saw him dig a hand through his longish dark blond hair as he griped, “That’s not my fault!”
Yikes.
Turning back around to face CJ, I smiled at him. He gave me one right back.
“Why should I have to—” Zac’s voice carried for a second, but when I glanced back in the direction he’d been in, he wasn’t there anymore. But I could still hear him.
“Trevor’s still mad at him about the party,” CJ said out of nowhere.
What party? The one here weeks ago?
“I hope someone signs him. He’s got a lot left in him.”
I glanced up to find my new best friend eyeing the container of scones in front of me. I nudged them toward him again and watched as he pried the lid off and plucked two more out. I wanted to ask him if he knew anything I didn’t—but when you knew nothing, which was exactly the amount of knowledge in my brain regarding Zac and his career, everything was information—but kept my mouth shut.
If Zac wanted me to know, he would just tell me himself, right? Not that I was expecting anything. And hadn’t I literally just told myself to mind my own business like fifteen minutes ago?
Luckily and unluckily, I didn’t have to wonder about it too much because CJ’s phone started ringing. The ringtone must have meant something, because the next thing I knew, he was shoving his stool back, saying, “I need to take this. Thanks for the scones, Bianca.”
All I managed to do was say, “You’re welcome, CJ,” before he was heading out the doorway and up the staircase.
Well, that had been interesting.
It had made my whole day.
I twisted again to glance where Zac had disappeared to. I couldn’t hear him anymore. Maybe he just wanted some privacy to finish up a conversation that didn’t sound all that pleasant. Made sense. I could wait.
As I sat there, I pulled out my phone and opened my email app, figuring I might as well get some work in while I waited. Random people messaged me all the time with various cooking questions, especially when they were trying to tweak one of my recipes, and I tried my best to write them all back. Most of the time I did it while I was on the toilet, but there was no point in sitting around not doing anything, was there?
I answered one email. Two. Three. Four. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and after the fifteenth one—from two days ago—had been replied to, I glanced at the clock on the microwave across from me… almost an hour had gone by.
Disappointment shaped like a sledgehammer hit me right in the center of the chest.
Did he forget I was here?
Something hot and uncomfortable layered itself over my sternum, and I turned again to see if he had come back and was just… being quiet. Wishful fucking thinking, and I knew it was. I knew it.