Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
I look down to see red streaked down my shirt.
“Dammit,” I mumble, stripping the fabric off and setting it next to the sink. Just as I reach for the dish soap, movement catches my eye.
Dahlia comes down the stairs, yawning.
My God.
Her hair’s a mess. Her eyes are swollen. A crease is indented on the side of her cheek from how she lay in bed.
And I’ve never seen her this beautiful.
My heart skips a beat as I look at her, drinking her in as she stands at the base of the stairs.
I search her face, desperate to commit this to memory—the way she looks and the way it feels to be here with her right now.
Her gaze drags down my shoulders, over my chest, and across my abs. My skin tingles from the contactless contact. I itch to grab her, hold her, bury my face in her hair, and breathe her in.
But I don’t. I can’t. That would be stupid.
A soft smile graces her plump lips. It does things to me that I don’t want to acknowledge. It makes my mind go places that aren’t safe.
What have I gotten myself into?
“I smelled food,” she says softly, walking to me.
“I was starving and thought you must be, too.”
She holds a hand on her stomach. “Can you hear that? It’s growling.”
“Good thing I cooked, then.”
She’s surprised. “I didn’t know you knew how to cook.”
“There are lots of things about me that you don’t know,” I say.
She sits at a barstool across from me and yawns again. “You’re right. I don’t. Let’s fix that.”
“You just woke up. How about we eat before you start grilling me?”
“One thing about me that you might not know is that I’m a great multitasker.” She smiles. “I can do two things at once.”
I hum.
“What did you make?” she asks.
“It’s just pasta and sauce. Both from a box or a can, so don’t have super high expectations.”
“Is there a way without using a box or a can?”
I slow blink. “Yes. You can make both from scratch.”
She gapes. “You’re telling me you know how to make pasta and sauce from scratch?”
“It’s really not that hard.”
“Why, Mr. Castelli. Aren’t you just a surprise?”
I ignore her and take out two plates.
“Sorry for falling asleep earlier,” she says. “I was waiting for you to come back because I didn’t want to interrupt your call. The next thing I know, I wake up to the smell of oregano … or whatever it is.”
“I’m glad you got some rest. You needed it.”
“Have you heard from Ford?”
I fix our plates, grabbing a piece of garlic bread for each of us, before sitting next to her at the counter. She hops up and grabs two bottles of water from the refrigerator.
“He called a little while ago,” I say, watching her move gracefully through the kitchen. “He said they’re sorting through things, and he’ll let us know when he knows more.”
I consider telling her what they found in her house and car but decide against it. We don’t have any answers right now, and without a resolution, it might only make things worse for her. If I can’t do anything else, I can shoulder the information on her behalf.
She hands me a bottle. “We might be here a while, huh?”
“Maybe.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Then I want to say something to you.”
“Shoot.”
“About earlier, in the closet …”
Her eyes are clear and alert. Her features are smooth and calm. She doesn’t look perturbed or regretful, nor does she look upset with me. All good things.
“Dahlia, let me go first.”
“Be my guest.”
I take a breath and turn to face her. “That was on me. All of it. And I’m a prick for doing it. There are so many reasons it was wrong to almost kiss you that I wouldn’t know where to start. Please accept my apology and know it won’t happen again.”
“Well, damn.”
“Well, damn?”
She sighs, twirling her fork into her pasta. “You’ve complicated things.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Not like that.”
“Then how?”
She sets the fork down on the side of her plate, watching me out of the corner of her eye. I’m not sure what she’s going to say. The woman’s unreadable. But my heart pounds relentlessly, anyway, bracing for a turn in our relationship that I can’t repair. I can’t do anything to ruin that. I can’t risk losing someone so important in my life. I won’t.
“I was going to say that I didn’t want it to make things weird between us,” she says. “We’ve both had a wild day, and emotions got the best of us.”
“You think?”
“Don’t you?” She turns on the stool to face me head-on. “I was going to say that the moment in the closet was the realest thing I’ve felt in a long time. And it felt good, it was a relief, to finally pretend that’s not what we want to do every time we’re together.”