Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
"That's smart."
"Yeah. They were really smart. And lucky too. They work hard, but there's always luck."
"I get it."
"They expanded all over Orange County. They have an actual chain."
"A pastry and coffee chain?"
"Yeah," I say.
"But you drink tea?"
"I like tea."
"And you like that they don't like it?" He sits on the couch and presses his finger to my chest. "You're a rebel."
The spot between my breasts, over my heart.
I'm naked on his couch and he's touching my chest and, somehow, it's all affection.
I do like him.
I do like this.
It's not just an appreciation of his skills or a desire to screw him again. It's more.
"It may have occurred to me," I say.
He smiles. "And cake? Do you like that?"
"It's sugar and flour. No nuance."
"Mm-hmm. That's it. All of it." He offers a plain white t-shirt.
"Because it's see-through?"
"Didn't consider that." He holds up his crossed fingers.
I sit up and shift into the t-shirt. Then the pair of boxers. They're a little big on me, but they're comfortable that way.
"That is why you got into tea?"
"Everyone thinks it's because I'm Asian. Even in Orange County, where people should know better." I shake my head. "But my parents rarely make tea. They're always pushing coffee. So I… it was that at first, but I really do love it."
"The subtlety?"
"Yeah."
"I have bad news."
"Oh?"
"I'm not a subtle chef."
"Really? I'm shocked."
"Don't bring the Bud Light into this."
"You said it."
He laughs and presses his lips to mine. "You thought it."
"No."
"Is that our first lie?"
"Really." I stand and stretch my arms over my head. "I'm not thinking anything."
"Forgot your own name?"
"And yours. Who are you, anyway?"
"Mister O."
"Oh my god." A laugh spills from my lips. "Are you always this cheesy?"
"Basically." He stands and pulls me into a hug. "Come on. You need to save yourself from my cooking skills."
"I eat grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. I'm a normal college student," I say. "Sorta."
"You don't cook?"
"Sometimes," I say. "Not often."
"Do you want to?"
"Now?" I move into his kitchen. It's nice. Modern. This entire place is nice. But then he didn't answer my question last time. How does he afford it?
I guess that's a little personal. Money is more taboo than anything in the US.
"No. I want to take a nap then go for round three," I say.
"Greedy."
"Always."
He smiles. "I don't have bread—"
"Of course you don't."
He raises a brow.
"You're very…" I motion to his biceps. His chiseled torso. "Ripped."
"Thank you." He laughs again. "That's not why."
"Sure it isn't."
"I don't eat it fast enough."
"Uh-huh."
"I have my own cheese delivery system," he says.
"Oh?"
"Quesadillas."
"The Californian version of grilled cheese."
"I think that's avocado toast."
"Where's the cheese?"
"Exactly." He puts a pan on the stove, turns on a burner, gathers ingredients. "I use corn tortillas."
"Authentic."
"Tasty."
True.
"Salsa roja or verde?"
"Verde."
"Excellent choice." He places four tortillas on the pan. "Now, if you'll prepare for dinner." He motions to the table. "Unless this is too much cheese."
"You're in luck. I ate real food for lunch."
"Oh?"
"A salad. With avocado."
"And I'm the California boy?" he asks.
"You have freckles."
"You're a competitive swimmer."
"You live in a loft," I say.
"You go to UCLA."
Hmm. What else do I have? "You have Cold Brew in your fridge."
"You drive a Prius."
Damn.
"And you love the beach."
"Everyone loves the beach."
"Talk to Oliver," he says. "See what response the beach gets."
"Which one is Oliver?"
"You haven't met."
"Oh, Luna's boyfriend? I'm sure he's happy enough to watch her run around in a bikini."
"He is a man."
"See. He likes it in his way," I say.
"That doesn't count."
"So you don't want to watch me run around in a bikini?"
"Oh, I do, but I don't concede the point."
"Let's call it a tie," I say.
"I think we both know the truth."
"You wear Vans," I say.
"And you don't?"
"Vans were founded in Anaheim."
"Exactly."
Damn. He's good. "Okay. You win. I'm the true Californian."
"Don't worry. I have avocados in the fridge." He shoots me a knowing look.
"I…" I can't lie. "I love avocados."
"I know." He smiles.
I melt.
We talk about nothing over dinner. We watch an old movie. We fuck on the couch, shower, dress.
I fall asleep in his bed.
And I sleep well. Easy.
In the morning, I feel rested and refreshed and alive.
I want more. I want everything. But I have school and I'm grateful for the distraction too. I don't trust myself to stay here and not fall for him.
Still. I don't want to wait until next weekend. I want something soon.
So I leave a note.
Have to run to class. Then read a bunch. I saw the details on the party from Luna. Let's stop by for an hour. Meet you there? Saturday at seven? Then back here? Or maybe on the balcony.
XO,
Imogen.
P.S. Text me tonight and I'll have a picture for you. But only if you say please.
Chapter Nineteen
PATRICK
Before Deidre died, I took one thing seriously: work. (Not that I showed it).
I craved one thing: mastery of my work.
Okay, yes, I craved the usual things. Candy and freedom and beautiful women. But I never craved a specific, beautiful woman. And once I was old enough to flirt, well, I didn't have any trouble attracting women.