Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“You did all this for me?” I say in shock, looking at this woman who, for the past four days has taken the brunt of my asshole ways, is going out of her way and winging it to make me chicken parm.
“I did it for me, too, but mostly for you,” she says and then cracks an egg in a bowl and then another. “If you want, you can search and see if you can find a recipe that is easy.” I just stare at her as she whisks the eggs and then goes in search of bread crumbs. She finds them and empties the whole bag on the plate and then slices the chicken breast into smaller pieces. “Do you think I need to add salt and pepper before I bread them?” she asks me, and I’m still here staring at her. She has turned the kitchen into a disaster, to say the least, but she has done it for me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. “Carter.”
“Yeah,” I say, blinking at her.
“Salt and pepper. Should I put it on the chicken?” she asks me and uses the back of her hand to scratch her forehead. “I think what’s the worst that can happen, right?”
“I’ll google,” I tell her and go back to get my phone in the room. I have to sit on the bed and get my heart beating regularly. I sit here, and I breathe in and out, and then I see her standing in the doorway.
“Are you okay?” she asks with worry on her face. “You don’t have to eat it.”
“No one has ever cooked for me,” I tell her. “I mean, I think my mother did once upon a time, but then she found that it was easier to pop things into the microwave, and then she used to order my meals.”
“Carter,” she says softly, and I shake my head.
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I just need a second to process it.”
“Do you want me to stay, or do you want me to go?” she asks, and I look at her. This woman pushes my buttons but then brings out something that I didn’t even know was possible. This woman who hands down is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. This woman who tells me to fuck off and then calls me an asshole and forgives me more this week than she should have.
“If I told you to stay, you would, wouldn’t you?” I ask her the question.
“Well, yeah,” she says, coming in and sitting on the bed next to me. “Isn’t that what friends do?”
“I don’t know. Never had any real friends,” I tell her the truth. “I’ve only had Hollywood friends.”
“I take it those aren’t real friends?” she asks. I notice she has a bread crumb in her hair.
“Did you turn off the stove?” I ask her, and her eyes go wide. Jumping off the bed, she runs to the kitchen, and I grab my phone and follow her. Luckily, nothing is burned, and the water is boiling.
“Okay, let me see if we can pull up a recipe and do this,” I tell her, and she turns around.
“No,” she says loudly. “I want to do this, so go watch television. Or, I don’t know, read your script for tomorrow. I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure?” I ask her, and she nods.
“You can make room for us to eat since every surface is full of flowers,” she says. I look around, and she isn’t wrong. The table is so full, as is the living room table and the counter, so I don’t know where to start. When I look back into the kitchen, she is frying the chicken. She looks over at me and smiles. “Watch out Iron Chef, I’m coming for you.”
I laugh at her when she finally places the chicken in the oven, and she is stirring the pasta. “The pasta is going to be done before the chicken is ready,” she says and groans. “It’s going to be so bad.”
“It isn’t going to be bad,” I tell her. “Just broil the chicken since it’s already cooked. All you need is for the top to cook.”
“Great idea, sous chef,” she says and turns the knob. Ten minutes later, she is plating the pasta and chicken parm.
She brings the plate over to the table that I set while she was cooking. She puts a plate down for me and a smaller one for herself. She sits and looks over at me and laughs. “If it’s not good, we can order something.”
Cutting a piece of chicken, I put it in my mouth, and believe it or not, it’s the best chicken parm I’ve ever eaten. “It’s really good,” I tell her, grabbing another piece.
“It isn’t too bad,” she says, and I look back at her and see sauce has splattered on her shirt, and it will probably be stained by the oil splashes, but I wouldn’t change it. “The pasta could use some salt.”