Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Sure.” She nods, and I swipe up the bakery stuff. “Did you grow up in a house like this?” she asks as we make our way downstairs to the garden level, where the kitchen is. That’s the family kitchen, not the outdoor kitchen. Or the catering one. Or the kitchen in the empty housekeeper’s apartment.
“Nah. Growing up, home was a redbrick semi on the outskirts of Dublin. My dad sold insurance, and my ma worked in the office of the local school. What about you?”
“I didn’t grow up in a house like this.” So bland a delivery tells its own story as we enter the kitchen. A story that seems to have nothing to do with bricks and mortar. “My mom had . . . issues. Alcohol and anger mainly,” she says, hopping up on a tall stool. “Like a good Beaujolais and hunk of Brie, they went real well together. She also had a lot of boyfriends,” she says, looking anywhere but at me. “I couldn’t wait to get out of the place.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur as I set the bakery bag on the counter and pull out the box.
“Not your fault.”
I can still be sorry, whether she wants me to be or not. “Where’d you grow up?”
“In a pissant town in Bumfuck, North Carolina.”
I cant my head like an inquisitive terrier. “I did wonder about that hint in your accent.”
“I do not have an accent. Bar the obvious one,” she adds with a flick of her hand. “I worked very hard to get rid of it. Y’all.”
I smile, mainly because there’s nothing I can add. Nothing she wants to hear, at least.
“Can I get you a drink?” I make my way to the other side of the kitchen. “Juice? Tea? Water? Another decaf?”
“Water. Sparkling, if you have it.”
“Got it.” I turn to the concealed fridge, the size of a catering one.
“You have a beautiful home,” she says, taking in the dark cabinetry and fancy marble countertops. “Really, just gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” The Sanpellegrino bottles clink as I pull one from the shelf. I crack the cap. “The place had been split into flats when I bought it,” I say, pouring the effervescent liquid into a glass. “It’s been a labor of love.”
“You didn’t . . .” She circles her finger in the air. “Your labor?”
“Well, I didn’t put in an underground basement, gym, and swimming pool, but everything I could do, I did. I designed the kitchen,” I add as I put the glass and bottle down in front of her. “Helped fit it. Repaired the Georgian moldings, stripped a hundred years of paint from the staircase.”
“You’re pretty good with your hands. I mean—”
“Glad to see you don’t have a bad memory.” Pleasure pulses through me as her gaze dips behind the curtain of her hair.
“It wasn’t your hands that got us into this predicament,” she murmurs, maybe not for my ears. I laugh anyway as I pull out a couple of side plates.
“Some might say predicament. Others might say blessing.”
“I like that.”
I pause and consider how I must’ve acted in the wine bar. I hope I’ve made my feelings clearer since then. “Yeah, I do too.” I pull open a drawer and lift out a couple of linen napkins. Now, wouldn’t that impress my mother. “I know there’s still lots to think about, logistics and such, but yeah, I’m excited.”
“Good.” She nods a few times, maybe in surprise. Or relief as she blows out a slow breath. “That’s good to hear.”
“I’m glad,” I say as I untie the string on the pastry box before spinning it around and setting it between us. “There’s a reason I brought you here today, rather than out somewhere for brunch.”
“As long as it doesn’t include a basement and handcuffs.”
I tsk again. “There you go spoiling my surprises.” I reach into the box, pull out a random pastry, and drop it to my plate.
“You’re a trip,” she says, following my direction with a slow, exaggerated shake of her head. I get a little kick of pleasure when she opts for the zeppole. A zeppola? I can’t feckin’ remember!
“That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. Trips,” I repeat. “Specifically, about you leaving.”
She keeps her eyes on her pastry for a beat. “It’s not going to be easy. But like I said, this is on me.”
“No, this is not a you thing, Ryan. Not anymore.”
“I appreciate you saying that, but you don’t need to feel as though you have to make things right.” Her attention drops again as she turns her little zeppola between her thumb and forefinger. “We had one night together, and it was amazing. Just what I needed, as it turned out.” Her eyes meet mine again. “And an amazing but unexpected thing will come out of that night, and it’s great that you want to be part of it all, but that doesn’t mean anything more than that.”