Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Before the kids burst into violent protest, I step into the room to help her save face.
“That’s enough talk about killing under my roof,” I say harshly.
“Dad! How long were you there?” Colt beams at me. “Didn’t you hear how horrible the hornets are?”
“I heard. I also heard Winnie make a good point. You can’t just go around planning to obliterate an entire species.” I fold my arms. “If we could wave a magic wand, a lot of people would do away with mosquitos, too. But you do that, you rob a lot of interesting animals of food. Bats, turtles, fish, you name it. I read about it in an article on my last long flight.”
The kids go silent, guilt etched on their faces.
Winnie looks like she wants to jump up and kiss me.
Shit, we definitely don’t need more of that.
I can’t help myself, though, and I smile at her anyway. She lets her bottom lip drop as she smiles back.
Goddamn, that frigging smile. I could stare at it all day.
“How about some pizza while you’re pondering the universe?” I drop the most important question.
“Yeah, cool, Mr. Rory.” Evans punches the air again. Briana almost smiles at me. “Are we ordering or are you making it?”
“Please say you’re making it, Dad. Your pizza blows away all the chain stuff.”
“What? You make your own pizza?” Winnie’s gaze drifts to me, her eyebrows raised.
“Deep dish,” Colt says proudly.
“Guilty as charged.” I hold up my hands in mock defense.
“Wow, and here I figured you had a personal chef like my parents.” She uncurls from the sofa, revealing long, bare legs and a pair of short white shorts. “Need some help?”
I don’t, but I nod anyway.
There’s no sense in leaving her stranded with these teenage monsters.
I barely have time to contemplate how I’ll keep a lid on my urge to rip her shorts off as she follows me to the kitchen.
13
BIRDS AND THE BEES (WINNIE)
Welp.
It turns out making pizza is a deeply sensual act. Who knew?
I certainly didn’t until Archer led me to his kitchen—enormous and gorgeously modern with high-end appliances, by the way—and pulled out his pre-made dough.
Pre-made dough.
As in, this man made his own dough. Like, from scratch.
Just to check, I prod it and say, “You really made this? From flour and stuff?”
“That’s dough, yeah. All mine. I threw it together a little earlier,” he confirms.
Oh my God.
It almost feels like he’s breaking a cardinal rule of being rich and handsome, but I’m here for it.
I didn’t think rich people like Archer existed when my parents barely lift a finger to prepare their own food. Neither does anyone important in the rapid power rush of DC, where takeout competes with prepackaged meals and artisan chefs for the stomachs of the nation’s capital.
It’s just like that British baking show except this is Archer Rory.
Archer, with his huge tattooed arms and a business that’s doing scarily well.
Archer, with his dark stubble and midnight-blue eyes and thick hair.
Archer, who mysteriously looks like he’s equally at home in a suit working at a desk or wearing a t-shirt while he beats up idiots like Holden.
That Archer made flipping pizza dough from scratch.
“Surprised?” he asks when I continue staring at the dough like it has ancient Sumerian written all over it.
“Maybe?” I laugh and force my shoulders to relax.
Hardly the first time since I showed up.
The things I felt when he walked into the room while Colt and his friends were spouting off about the hornets…
Even now, the butterflies storming my belly haven’t settled down one bit. Neither have the indecent, intrusive thoughts that keep bleeding in every time I look at him.
He stands beside me now, our elbows almost touching, chopping an onion with near professional precision on a bamboo cutting board.
“I’m a single dad, so I’d better know a thing or two about food,” he tells me. “And when I say Colt was fussy as a kid, I mean it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and not like most kids are. You know, the ones who turn down their veggies and live on nuggets and mac and cheese.”
“I’m familiar, yes.” When I was a kid, classic box mac ‘n’ cheese was my favorite. My mom and her hired nannies had a fight on their hands to get me to eat anything else, including pizza, ironically enough. “What did he like?”
“Grapes. The boy used to eat them by the vine. He’d eat fries, but only if I made them myself with seasonings he liked. Bread, he’d only eat when it was warm out of the oven. Never knew kids could be so damn fussy.”
I smile. “What did you do?”
“Got real good at making bread for one. I also found ways to expand his palate, sneaking grape jelly into his bread and pairing it with healthier stuff.” He snorts. “The first few years were rough.”