Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
9
PIPPA
“And this is why I don’t cook often,” I mutter as I wipe tomato spatter off the counter.
The kitchen is bright, filled with midday sunlight. I’ll need to close the blinds soon to keep the heat out, but for now, I need the mood boost the rays give me.
I hum along to Post Malone playing from my phone and bop around the kitchen like I’m not a jumble of pent-up nerves.
My eyes ache, reminding me that I’ll need a nap at some point today. Sleep was not kind to me last night. The sturdiness of Jess’s arms around my waist haunted me. The warmth of his breath on my cheek. The way his smile filled my soul with brightness and made me crave more of it. All of that kept me up. And when I wasn’t thinking about Jess, I bounced between excitement over my new position and desperation to keep it.
Maybe I should just tell Bridgit the truth and end my suffering.
I teetered on the edge of shooting her an email last night, explaining how my mouth overloaded my ass. How I became caught up in the moment of Chuck needling me, and I blurted out a bit of false information. The only thing that stopped me from coming clean was that even if she understood—even if she blew it off—I would still be starting my new job with a halo of soot over my head.
My reputation would already be dirty. Do I want to dirty it up over something as stupid as this?
I pull one bowl of the cold tomato soup and another smaller bowl of tarragon crème fraîche from the refrigerator. I nestle them both in a box on a cute kitchen hand towel that I bought at the Dollar Tree recently, along with a pretty bowl and spoon.
Heat blasts my face, threatening to burn off my eyelids, as I exit my apartment. I cut across the rock yard separating my unit from Honey’s.
She spots me through the window before I get the chance to knock.
“Get in here, you little thing,” she shouts from inside.
I open the door and stick my head around the corner. Honey is sitting in her recliner with a patchwork blanket covering her lap.
“Did I wake you?” I ask.
“No, I’ve just been sitting here catching up on my shows. I had a stomachache yesterday, and my granddaughter brought me supper.” She sighs, motioning for me to join her in the living room. “I love my Brooke so much, and I appreciate that girl more than she’ll ever know. But if she could come when my game shows aren’t on … there are twenty-four hours in the day. She could pick one that’s not in a two-hour span.”
I set the box on the stand beside her chair. “I didn’t know if you had anything for lunch, and I knew you weren’t feeling well, so I brought you some soup.”
Her eyes light up. “You are the sweetest.” She points at the couch. “Sit down. Talk to me while I eat—unless you have somewhere to go, of course.”
My heart warms as I sink into her sofa.
“What kind of soup is this, sweetheart?” she asks.
“Cold tomato soup with tarragon crème fraîche. It’s my favorite when it’s hot out. Kind of a pain to make, and my kitchen is tinted red now, but it’s delicious.”
She chuckles, pulling the top off the container. “I’ll have my grandson-in-law come over and redo your apartment like he did mine.” A dollop of the crème fraîche goes onto the soup. “He’s a good worker, that boy. I’m thrilled my little Bee found him.”
Honey samples my concoction. Her eyes roll to the back of her head as she moans in delight. I laugh at her antics but am secretly relieved and proud that she likes it.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she asks. “This tastes like an old recipe—one of those tried-and-true ones. Was it your mother’s?”
I snort. “I’m not sure if my mother has ever made a homecooked meal in her life.”
She raises her drawn-on eyebrow.
I sort through my memories, trying to come up with a single instance of my mom standing over a stove. Not one moment comes to mind. I never even realized that cooking was a part of normal life until I became friends with Kerissa in elementary school. The first night I slept at her house, her mom asked what I wanted for dinner. She was shocked I rattled off a few meals from local eateries; I was dumbstruck that she was going to make it herself.
“Tell me about your parents,” Honey says.
“You don’t have all day.”
“Give me the short version.”
I sigh. “Well, they’re both surgeons. They’re brilliant and talented and save lives every day.”
“I didn’t ask you to tell me about who they are to everyone else. I asked who they are as your parents.”