Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I calmed myself with a deep breath. No one was here to pass judgment on me.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” I glanced at Dash, who was staring at the pie with hearts in his eyes.
“Yes.” He leaned closer to sniff it. “Oh my God. How wrong would it be to say I want to bury my face in your pie right now?”
I laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Very wrong.”
“Okay, then I’ll just think about it.”
On shaky legs, I found my way to the fridge and pulled it open. The cool air rushing out felt good on my overheated face. “Would you like a glass of wine? I had to open a bottle for the recipe.”
“Sure.”
The bottle of white Burgundy was on the shelf right in front of my face, but my eyes seemed to be having trouble locating it. All I could see was Dash’s head between my legs. His scruff rubbing my thighs. His tongue teasing my clit.
Finally spotting the wine, I grabbed the bottle by the neck and set it on the counter. This is not a date, I repeated as I poured two glasses. This is two friends eating dinner and watching a movie. The only pie being eaten tonight is of the chicken pot variety.
When we moved into the living room and set up two tray tables, I made sure to place mine at the opposite end of the couch from his.
Sixteen-year-old Ari was still in my head, and she was a fool for Dashiel Buckley.
She always would be.
“This is ridiculous. There is totally room on that door for both of them.”
“Shhhhh!” I reached over and slapped his arm. “No talking. This is a very emotional scene, so pay attention.”
Dash sighed and folded his arms over his chest. His legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt he filled out like it was a second skin. For a moment, I was distracted by the fact that I’d seen him naked just the other day, so I knew exactly what that body looked like beneath the clothes. My skin prickled with heat, and I wished I could take off my sweater, but I wasn’t wearing anything beneath it except a bra. My eyes wandered to his crotch. My mind went to the dangle.
“Hey. If I have to watch this, you have to watch this.”
Mortified, I quickly looked at the screen again. “I’m watching.”
A laugh rumbled low in his throat. “Okay.”
I kept my eyes where they belonged for the rest of the movie.
It was a struggle.
When the credits were rolling, I wiped the tears from my eyes. “That movie gets me every time.”
“Why?”
“Dash! Are you made of stone? The sacrifices they made for each other! She got out of that lifeboat stupid Cal put her in because she didn’t want to leave Jack! And he doesn’t get on the door because he doesn’t want to risk her life. Then when she can barely summon the will to survive, she does it for him.” I reached for the box of tissues I’d placed on the end table, knowing I’d need them. “All those photos at the end prove that she lived an extraordinary life, even though she had to do it without him.”
“Might have been more extraordinary if she’d sold that big-ass diamond,” he pointed out.
I sighed heavily. “She hung onto it because it was her only link to Jack—her only evidence that he ever existed. It’s not like there were photographs of him. Just her memory. And then—” I fought tears again. “And then she gives her heart to him in the end. She saved it for him.”
Dash pondered that, then shrugged. “Okay.”
“Dashiel! Were you not moved by any of this? I’m beginning to think your agent was right and you don’t have any feelings!”
Laughing, he rose to his feet and picked up his empty plate and wineglass. “I have plenty of feelings. But I can’t help it if I thought the food was better than the movie.”
“I suppose I can’t get mad about that,” I said, following him into the kitchen with my own plate and glass.
“Dishwasher?” he asked.
“Just put them in the sink. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, you won’t. You did all the cooking, and you’ve still got a hurt finger. How’s it feeling?”
“Okay.” I set my dishes on the counter. “I’ll be glad when I can get the stitches out. I’m giving you some pot pie to take home for your dad, okay?”
“Do I have to give it to my dad?” He opened the dishwasher and began to load it.
I grinned as I portioned out the leftovers into two containers. “You can take both of these. One can be yours, and one can be his. But I’m going to ask him how he liked it, so don’t hog both for yourself.”