Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Man, we’re going to have to pretend we’re not here just so the neighbors will stop coming over.”
“Paige,” I scold. I like the attention. We never had this kind of communication with anyone in the city.
I round the island, looking through the blurred glass, opening the door when I can’t make out who it is.
Holy. Shit!
Heston!
“What are you doing here?” I say, my tone higher than usual, excitement and unease swarming through me. “How did you get my address?”
He smirks, a brow raising to complete his cocky ego. He lifts his hand, two grocery bags hanging around his wrist.
“You can’t escape my company.” He winks. The idea he stalked me down is a bit creepy, but I’m bursting like fireworks to see him. I was so upset when he didn’t reply back today. I was mad and angry at myself. But he went out of his way to find me. Is that alarming or romantic?
“So, should I consider this visit a casual psycho-stalking or something more head-over-heels and you couldn’t wait to see me?” He lightly laughs, scratching his chin with his free hand.
“And what if it’s both?” His eyes take on a look that makes my breath hitch.
“Hmmm. My answer depends on how you got my address.” I tap my chin playfully, but I’m serious.
“You told the Uber driver last night,” he finally says. Oh…yeah, I did do that.
Feeling like an idiot. I step aside and let him in. His dark green button-up shirt, dress pants, and suspenders are a sight for sore eyes. Inwardly, I wonder where his jacket is, so I can wear it and smell just like him the rest of the night.
“It’s you!” Paige’s voice holds both excitement and sass as she jokes with him. My eyes snap from his sculpted backside to her.
“It’s me!” he says back, placing the bags on the counter. “Care if I make you and your mom dinner tonight? It’s the least I can do after crashing into ya.”
Paige looks over to me then back at him, her eyes creating a wrinkled valley between her brows, an unreadable expression on her face.
“You like my mom, don’t you?”
My face heats with embarrassment. How could she just come out and ask that?
He lowers his head, muttering something to her. I can’t hear him, so I watch his lips, hoping to decipher a word or two.
“…help a guy out?” He glances at me, and I stand there, starstruck. Paige doesn’t say or respond in anyway. Instead, she opens the bags and starts to snoop through them.
“What are you making?” she questions, and I’m curious as well. I close the space between Heston and me, but before I can reach the bags, he pulls me into a hug. His hard, warm body against mine causes me to feel secure and not alone. Wrapping my arms around him, I rest my head on his chest. His Amberwood and pepper scent is intoxicating.
“Do you guys like pesto with grilled chicken?” Glancing up, I catch his eyes searching my face for an answer. I look to Paige, who shrugs. “I don’t know. Sounds fancy.”
Laughing at her response, I take a step back. Feeling Heston staring at me, I shrug my shoulder, my brows raised. “Sounds delicious!”
He slaps his hands and rubs them together, as if he’s about to cook up something magical.
“Great, because it’s about all I know how to cook.” He laughs, and I can’t help but find him cute. He’s trying so hard.
Stepping up to the bags, which are half-empty from Paige going through them, he pulls out a bottle of wine. My eyes snap to Paige, who is already glaring at me, silently telling me not to bring it up. I won’t, but that bottle will be tossed after dinner. I can’t trust her around it…and that hurts to say because I’ve never not trusted her.
Paige sits on the couch, trying to find a movie to watch, while I stand against the counter, watching Heston navigate his way around my kitchen.
“This doesn’t exactly sound like a beginner dish. How do you know how to make it?”
He focuses on the task at hand, placing a small number of tomatoes on a cutting board, and begins to slice them.
“Um…it’s my mom’s favorite. I’d sit on the kitchen counter and watch her cook it while telling her about my day at school.” He shares a piece of his life, and it’s beautiful. My eyes shift to my mom’s urn. I can’t help but think about the things she taught me over the years.
“My mom taught me a lot of things. She was an artist,” I say. His eyes flick to mine. “You wanna get some water boiling?” He asks, not commenting on what I just shared with him.
“Sure thing.” Pushing off the counter, I open the bottom cabinet, pull out a pot, and start to fill it with water.