Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
The crinkle of his brow is so cute. “You do.” I’ve only lived with him a few weeks, but I’ve done a thorough investigation of his supplies and utensils.
He slides the squeezer across the counter next to the garlic press. “Guess I don’t need two.” Picking up my tin, he asks, “Biscotti, that’s all?”
“Your kitchen is stocked, and I don’t need to buy anything before I move.” Plucking the mitt off his hand, I then reach up. “Duck.” He dips his head, and I remove the apron. “You don’t need these. That’s just spending money to spend money.”
“The marinara stained your shirt last week, so I was actually buying them for you.” My heart gets stuck in my throat, making it hard to swallow. I look down at the set, somehow managing to swallow the sweetness down, and ask, “For me?”
Thumbing over his shoulder, he grins. “If you’d prefer another color . . .”
“No, it’s perfect. Thank you.” I hug them to my chest. “And you picked it, which makes it even better.”
“The blue is pretty. It reminds me of your eyes.”
“Miss?” Holding my tin, the saleslady smiles. “Sixteen dollars and twenty-seven cents.”
But how am I supposed to function like Rad didn’t just drop that compliment on me like it’s nothing? To me, it’s everything.
“Miss?” I look up when the older woman tugs my attention back to her again. “Would you like this gift wrapped?”
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, taking a breath that feels needed at the moment and lift on my toes. I point at the bottom paper on the dowel. “Pink, please.”
The more time Rad and I spend together, the more our comfort level grows. Less than a month ago, he felt like a stranger in many ways as he did a friend in others. Now, we’re shopping together like a married couple.
Angling toward me, he leans against the counter. “Who are the biscotti for?”
“Your mom. I don’t want to arrive empty-handed, and she loves coffee like I do. Voilà—biscotti.”
“She’s looking forward to seeing you.” He turns to the saleslady, and says, “I’ll add it to my total.”
“You don’t have to do that, Rad. She’s hosting all of us for the weekend. I can buy her a gift.”
“It’s all good, Bell. No worries.”
While he faces the counter, I lean against him, looking across a sea of pricey kitchen items. He pats my hip, and I pat his. Not only has our comfort level grown but also our friendship. I feel safe with Rad in unexpected ways, like now. We’re a team and in this together, whatever this is. It’s ours and ours alone.
I sort of love that we’re living this secret life away from the others.
When the items are wrapped and tucked in the bag, I peek around him and get a glimpse of the total before his black card is charged. My eyes practically bug out of my head. He’s spending hundreds on things he doesn’t even know if he needs.
How can he spend all that money without so much as a second thought?
Taking the bag by the handles, he lowers it to his side as we walk toward the door.
Maybe it’s the way his hand just barely braces to my back when he opens the door with the other, or how he makes me feel special every time he looks at me. But then I ask, “Why did you buy all that stuff?” He grins sheepishly.
“I’ve enjoyed cooking with you. Figured we could use a few more gadgets to play with.” I’m not sure I’m buying his response.
I think he just likes spending time with me. As if Rad couldn’t get sweeter. . . he does.
If I’m being honest, he’s dreamy, too.
The street is in the shade of the building as we walk to the restaurant for our weekly meetup with the gang. Rad glances at me. I say, “Thank you for buying the biscotti.”
“My pleasure.”
After thinking about how good it’s been to build on our relationship, I didn’t think his pleasure was going to be what stuck with me, but now I can’t stop thinking about it and wondering how he likes to be pleased. And who’s pleasing him?
Is he meeting someone during the day for a lunchtime rendezvous? Or sneaking out after I go to bed for a midnight quickie?
Most importantly, why do I care?
And do I have a right to care?
I look at his free hand hanging by his side through the corners of my eyes. The heat of his fingertips was still scorching through my satin shirt. What is happening? He barely touched me, but my skin is on fire, wanting to feel the burn one more time.
I think I need to check out a dating app and get myself back out there. Craving human touch, his to be precise, isn’t appropriate. Rad’s my friend, my roomie—