Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 59659 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59659 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Ah,” she said. “Good. Then something red, please.”
I laughed.
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever the lady would like.”
A smirk pushed up one side of her face before she disappeared behind the menu. I thought I caught a slight trace of red on her cheeks too.
The waiter came by and took our drink orders, including the bottle of rather expensive wine. I rarely drank anymore, aside from the occasional beer in my easy chair, but this was increasingly becoming a special occasion. The way she glanced at me over the menu, there was a duality to her. It was as if at once she wanted to flirt with me while at the same time make sure I understood just how much disdain she had for me.
It was extremely enthralling.
Once the waiter came back to take our orders and pour the wine, I settled into the seat and took a sip. It was dark and delicious. Dry with a hint of blackberry. Succulent and mysterious. Just like Melanie.
“So, before we get onto any other subject,” I said, “I would like to know about you. Melanie Brewer. The person. Tell me about you.”
“What is it you want to know?” she asked, taking a deep sip of her wine. “I figured you would have done at least some research on me by now.”
“A little,” I said. “But what a person can find in old newspaper clippings is a shell of who the person actually is. What’s your favorite color?”
“Red, you?”
“Red,” I answered immediately. It took all my willpower for my eyes not to flicker down to her blouse and her pillowy breasts inside it. “How about your favorite hobby?”
“I crochet,” she said. “It’s silly, but it’s something that connects me to my mother. You?”
“Weight-lifting,” I said. “Nothing competitive, just something I enjoy for myself.”
“Figures,” she said, grinning as she took another sip.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a jock,” she said. “It’s why you wear tight shirts all the time.”
Now we were getting somewhere.
“My shirts aren’t tight,” I said with a grin. “Not on purpose.” She shrugged and looked away innocently. “I’m not a jock, by the way. I played baseball, but that was because my best friend played, and I enjoyed the game with him. Otherwise, I didn’t play sports. I barely follow anything anymore.”
“I see,” she said. “What about you? What’s your story?”
“We haven’t even begun yours,” I countered.
“Yet here I am asking. Where do you come from? I mean recently. I know you were born here.”
“Baltimore, most recently,” I said.
“And what made you leave there?” she asked.
It was an innocent enough question, but one I had a hard time answering. Her playful yet slightly combative attitude was something I didn’t want to ruin. I was having fun. But it was hard to have fun and think about Sarah at the same time.
“It’s personal,” I said. “I’ll tell you some time. Just not now.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
“Do you watch TV? Or are you one of those insufferable people who claim they never watch anything and don’t even own one?”
I laughed.
“No, I watch TV. To be honest, I really enjoy reality cooking shows.”
“Do you cook?”
“Terribly,” I admitted. “It’s like watching sports. I can watch it, appreciate the talent involved, theoretically know how to copy what I see, but then when I go to try, my hands are too dumb to do it.”
“But you try?” she asked.
“I do. I make a half-decent pancake,” I said.
She giggled, and the sound seemed to fill my entire world. I loved how musical it was. So light and joyful, like a balloon that flies away up a flight of stairs and then tumbles back down.
“Pancakes are important,” she said. “Very fine meal, pancakes.”
“Sturdy,” I said. “Salt of the earth type meal.”
“What’s your vice?”
“My vice?” I asked.
“Everyone has one. Some people smoke, some people drink more than they should. Some people eat loads of chocolate. What’s yours?”
“Can I ask yours first?”
“Sure.” She nodded.
I blinked a few times and then motioned at her questioningly.
“Well?”
“I said you could ask. I didn’t say I would answer.”
“Very funny,” I said. “But that isn’t how this game works. You have to answer.”
“Look at you, telling me again how things work,” she said. A little of the playful edge was sharper that time.
“Just following protocol. You can refuse to answer I suppose.”
“No,” she said, finally after taking another sip of the wine. “I’ll spill. I would guess my vice is chocolate. There’s nothing more satisfying than sinking into a hot bubble bath after work and eating chocolate.”
My cock shifted in my pants, and I felt the need to move around to give it some room. Just the words ‘bubble bath’ coming from her lips was enough to conjure images in my mind that I was going to have to work very hard to suppress.
“Chocolate,” I said after a moment of trying to keep my breathing even. “Got it.”