Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
I manage to sit back and paste a benign expression on my face when she turns in my direction with a pan full of meat she just charred. “This kitchen is beautiful. I figured I’d be lucky if you had a gas stove, but you could open a restaurant in here.”
“It was this way when I bought it.”
As she bends forward to place the pan in the oven, her ripe ass points to the sky. My already hard cock stiffens even more. I’m sure she didn’t come here to get assaulted by my hard-on, so I lean back and push out a heavy breath. I need to concentrate on something other than her lush, fuckable body.
“How come Monday?” I ask.
She straightens and dusts her hands together. “Mondays are the slowest, plus the market is closed on the weekends so all the proteins, fruits, and veggies are from Friday. Don’t ever order fish on Monday if you go out because it’ll be three days old.”
“Noted.”
“Of course, if I’m serving fish, it’s because I got it fresh. Sometimes people have connections.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and even that’s sexy.
Did I accidentally inhale something at the lab that’s increasing my testosterone levels? This kind of response is not normal.
“I mean, not bad connections. Like I’m not taking advantage of someone.”
“I didn’t say you were doing anything wrong, did I?” Had I said she wasn’t normal out loud?
“You were frowning so I thought you disapproved.”
“Of you? Never!” Where did that outburst come from? Too much dopamine and norepinephrine. I did have a leftover brownie from Mancini’s. I narrow my eyes. Does she lace her desserts, and that’s why the food is so good? Am I on some aphrodisiac and don’t know it? I’m going to test my blood tomorrow.
“Whew,” she says, wiping imaginary sweat off her forehead. I nearly pass out from the sexiness of it. “Anyway, don’t forget what I said about the fish,” she instructs before returning to the counter to do something with a pile of dough.
I nod but inwardly think that it doesn’t matter because I can’t see myself eating anything not made by her. Still, my chemical response is odd.
“Do you put drugs in your desserts?”
She slaps her palms on the counter and glares at me over her shoulder. “Do I what?”
The dopamine rush spikes although I’m not sure if it’s fear or excitement. The line blurs there. “I’m guessing that’s a no. I was just curious.”
“Of course, I don’t. First, you need a license for that, and second, my desserts do not need drugs for them to taste good.” Her voice is getting high at the end.
“I know. I know.” I try my best to defuse the situation because even though I suck at interactions with humans, I know when I’ve screwed up. “The food is damned good, which is why I’m paying you to be my private chef every Monday. I never was interested in food before and now your food”—and you—“is all I think about.”
Those must have been the right words because she softens immediately. “Never interested in food? How is that possible? I’ve been cooking and baking ever since I could lift a spoon.”
“Did you teach yourself to cook?”
“Oh no, I learned from my mom and my grandma. This is Nonna’s recipe here.” She nods toward the dough. “I remember her making these biscuits on Sundays after church. She’d mix up the dough the night before and then invite us kids to help her roll it out into long logs and pinch off just enough. Some other ladies at church would use a Mason jar or a coffee cup to cut out the biscuits, but Nonna felt like the best ones were always shaped by hand.”
The corners of her mouth are tilted upward, and her eyes are almost closed as if she’s reliving that memory. I tuck it away. Nonna is important. Taught her how to cook. Does things by hand. Those things are important to Lucia.
“That’s enough about me. What about you? What kind of sciencey things are you cooking up in your lab?” She drops her balls of dough onto a sheet pan.
“Alzheimer’s, specifically working on a drug that targets the plaque build-up in your brain.”
“Like teeth plaque?” She leans against the black marble counter opposite me.
“Yes. Microscopic clumps of the protein beta-amyloid build up in the brain space and prevent the signals from the neurons from reaching each other. Essentially, they’re like mini roadblocks in your brain pathways. The drug I’m working on acts like your own antibodies to dissolve or prevent the build-up of the plaque.”
“Oh my God, that sounds so cool and worthwhile. I feel lucky to be cooking for you.”
My ego is about to grow as big as my cock. The timer dings, and her attention is diverted before I can do something stupid like leap over the island and lay her down on the marble and show her how my dick can clear any blocked pathway. I really deserve a gold medal or a presidential pardon for a crime of my choice for not dragging her upstairs and locking her away in my room as she leaves. I do watch her from my front stoop until she climbs into the cab and is driven away. My endorphin high is gone, and the dopamine has worn off.