Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Are you always this bubbly in the morning?” I ask before taking a sip.
“Yeah, pretty much. What's not to love this time of year?” He shrugs, and I want to respond with every-fucking-thing, but I don’t. “Families shopping together, picking out and decorating their Christmas tree, baking cookies and making gingerbread houses, sleigh rides, the festive music. I enjoy the whole vibe of togetherness and giving. It's the best time of year.”
Oh God, he can't be serious.
This is my own personal hell.
He sounds like an eight-year-old boy excited to sit on Santa's lap instead of a thirtysomething man.
“Just wait until you experience the town in all its holiday glory. We're famous for our downtown festivals, small locally owned shops, and of course, Bennett's Orchard Farm. My best friend Finn and his family run it. I'll show you around so you can write a genuine, honest review for your article.”
I stare at him like he's grown a second head. What makes him think any of that sounds appealing to me?
“Can't wait,” I deadpan, lifting the mug to my lips and trying it.
“What do you think?” he asks enthusiastically.
“It's...not awful.”
But it most definitely isn't coffee.
He frowns. “Stir it with the cinnamon stick. You'll thank me later.” Then he shoots me a wink and starts digging in the fridge.
I do as he suggests and take a few more sips for the simple fact that it’s warming my core.
Dasher sits next to Levi as he scrambles eggs, sausage, and cheese in a bowl before dumping it into the hot pan. Considering I'm starving and should be grateful for the food, I decide to keep my mouth shut about how I don't eat pork.
After hardly eating anything yesterday, I'll take what I can get, even this cinnamon sugar-water he claims is the best thing ever.
“Bon appétit!” Levi sets a plate in front of me, and while it looks decent, the smell of the meat makes me want to vomit.
“Thank you.”
“Want a refresher?” He nods to my half-empty mug.
“No, I'm good.”
I dig in, separating the sausage from the eggs and cheese. As we sit in silence, I slyly lower my hand and give Dasher the meat without Levi noticing. I glance down at him, and we make an unspoken agreement—I feed him, and he doesn't tell. Our little secret.
When my plate's empty and I've drained my mug, Levi grabs my dishes and stands.
“Um, thanks,” I say, not used to anyone picking up after me. “I can take care of that.” I quickly stand and walk toward the sink.
“You sure you know how?” He shoots me a smirk, and I roll my eyes. “Just figured that if you can't cook...”
“Rude.” I scowl, and he chuckles.
“And just for that, I withdraw my offer.” I return to the couch, dragging my blanket with me. To my displeasure, Dasher follows.
I curl up into a ball, basking in the warmth of the fire. When Levi comes into view, he’s wearing gray sweatpants.
Tightly corded muscles line his stomach and arms, making me swallow hard as I avoid his gaze. He most definitely caught me gawking.
Shit. He needs to put on more clothes.
“I'm gonna check the furnace and see if I can get the pilot light to stay on.”
I almost offer to help, but I know he'd probably make a joke about my lack of skills, so I sink back into the couch instead.
“Alright, I better add more layers in the event you fail,” I mock. I'm already wearing two pairs of fuzzy socks, a long-sleeve shirt underneath a heavy sweatshirt, and two layers of leggings. No matter what I do, I can't get the chill out of my veins.
“Pretty mouthy for someone who’d never be able to survive living off the grid.”
“That's not true,” I argue, though it is. “I just choose not to put myself through that torture.”
He licks his lips, pulling them back into a cocky grin as he scrubs his hand over his scruffy chin. “Okay, Little Miss Seattle. You’re getting a lesson in country living. Come on.”
He walks away before I can ask any questions, but I follow him anyway. When he opens the door to a utility room, I know I'm in trouble.
“Hold this for me.” He hands me a flashlight without waiting for me to respond. Apparently, I'm his permanent flashlight holder. “Now aim it down here for me.”
I kneel and do as he says, sneezing when he brushes off a layer of dust.
“You allergic?” he asks, crouching next to me.
“To filth? Yes.”
He snorts.
“Just hold it steady.”
After ten minutes of the pilot light coming on and flickering off, he shrugs his shoulders in defeat.
“It's not gonna stay lit.”
“What's wrong with it?” I rush out, my breath floating in the crisp air in white bursts.
“Either it’s still too windy or a sensor went bad and needs to be replaced.”