Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 119548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
His smirk dropped slightly. “Tell that to the registrar’s office.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to paying attention to the spaghetti before I overdid it. He was right, but still.
“Is this really not an apology for something? You never cook.”
“I never usually have to,” I pointed out. “But, fine. Yes. It’s my apology for my drunk self last night. Happy now?”
“You do make a mean spaghetti,” Fred replied, stepping up next to me. “I suppose it’ll suffice. Especially for the little mouse under the bed performance.”
“Once again, I was correct. There was technically a mouse under the bed.” I sniffed, leaning over to stir the sauce and nudging him out of the way.
He took the spoon from my hand and removed the pot’s lid, taking over stirring duty. “That’s beside the point. You had me going for a moment—I thought there was an actual live, squeaking mouse under there for a bit.”
I scratched my chin. “In my defense, I thought that, too.”
He peered down at me, and the moment our eyes met, his lips cracked into a smile. “I figured that much out myself. You were far too surprised that it was your slipper for me to think anything else.”
I pouted and turned away to dig the colander out of the cupboard so I could drain the pasta. He tried to take over, but I smacked his hands away and grabbed the pan before he could do it.
“Just sit down,” I ordered. “It’s not much of an apology if you do half of it, is it?”
“All right, all right.”
He did as he was told, and I served us the spaghetti. He was sitting at the end of the island, and I took the seat around the corner, leaving an empty one between us.
Fred glanced at it, but he said nothing but a, “Thank you,” after I’d put his plate in front of him. I’d already rummaged in the wine cellar and put a bottle in an ice bucket earlier today, and he took a moment to pour us both a glass.
“I’m a bit wary about giving you this.” He slid one along the countertop towards me.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure this wine won’t do even a tenth of the damage that vodka did last night.” My stomach curled at the mention of the spirit. “Then again, maybe I should just stick to water.”
His lips twitched as I got up to get a glass. “That might be the wiser course of action. I can’t say I fancy scooting about under the bed again, lest you see a jellyfish or something just as unlikely under there.”
“Hey.” I turned around, giving him my best ‘what the fuck?’ look. “A jellyfish is just a ridiculous thing to see under a bed. A mouse is completely reasonable.”
“Not in this house, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is. I saw one outside last week. It wasn’t that crazy of me to think one might have gotten inside.”
“Assuming you’re right, it doesn’t account for the size discrepancy. Mice are tiny little things, and your slippers are… Well, they are not. They’re teddy bears for your feet.”
“That’s why I like them.” I huffed out a breath as I sat down, exchanging my wine for water. I pushed the glass towards him, and he expertly tipped the wine back into the bottle without making a mess. “It’s amazing how you do that.”
“It’s called not being a klutz. And I’m always amazed you can’t, given that you’re a bartender.”
“Funnily enough, tipping wine back into bottles isn’t usually what happens in a pub.”
He chuckled. “Good point.” He twirled some spaghetti around his fork and put it in his mouth. After thoughtfully chewing for a moment, he swallowed, then stared at me.
I blinked. “I didn’t poison it.”
“I wasn’t about to suggest you did.” He fought back a laugh. “I was about to tell you how good it was. This must be one heck of an apology.”
I pressed my lips together. “I… behaved very inappropriately last night, and I apologise.”
“What for?”
“Last night. I just said that.”
“What parts specifically were inappropriate? If you’re going to apologise, do it properly.” His eyes twinkled with mirth, and the momentary urge to stab him with my fork washed over me.
“You’re not actually going to make me say it out loud, are you?”
As if he was completely unbothered, he continued twirling spaghetti on his fork. “Yes. I’m interested to see how much you remember and which parts you think were so inappropriate that an apology is necessary.”
I cleared my throat and turned away, finally putting a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth.
Damn. This was good.
“I assume that blush isn’t because you’re complimenting yourself on your cooking.”
“You—” A bit of spaghetti caught in my throat, and I coughed, instantly reaching for my water. I glugged it down, freeing the offending bit of spaghetti, and glared at Fred with watery eyes.