Read Online Now or Never: A Last Chance Romance (Part 1) by Logan Belle - Free Book Online
Authors: Logan Belle
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that are dense in nutrients. I got into it because it boosts your mental output. Did you know your brain uses twenty-five percent of your body’s energy?”
“No.”
“Yeah. So that’s why I got into it. Productivity. But superfoods are cancer fighting.”
“I should eat better,” I admit.
“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll show you how to cook healthier, if you promise not to quit on The List.”
“You can cook?”
“It’s probably the thing I do second best.”
“What’s the first?”
He smiles suggestively. I walked right into that one.
“When and where is this alleged super-food cooking going to happen?”
“Now. Tonight. My place.”
His apartment? I have to admit, I’m curious. Damn, he knows how to suck me right in. I’m willing to play the fool for one more night.
“Fine.”
“Oh no,” he says, smiling. I notice a dimple in his left cheek. “You need to say it’s a deal.”
“You drive a hard bargain. Fine. It’s a deal.”
Chapter 11
The Parc Rittenhouse, on the east side of Rittenhouse Square at South 18th Street, is a luxury condominium that feels like a hotel. The lobby is all marble and granite in black and ivory. In the elevator, he pushes the button for twenty, the top floor.
I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman .
He opens the door to a pristine, chrome and glass apartment that is spotless and almost bare.
“Very homey. Lived in,” I joke.
“At least I invited you in,” he says. Ouch. Got me with that one.
The floor plan is open, almost loft-like. I have a view of the ultra modern kitchen, where Justin is already pulling ingredients from his silver Sub-Zero.
A massive flat screen takes up one wall facing the black couch. Speakers set high in the corners of the ceiling indicate any movie viewing would be a theater-like experience. The rest of the furniture is all sharp angles and bare surfaces, no knick-knacks to clue me in to favorite travel spots, not family photos. I’m disappointed not to find more obvious clues about him, until I notice a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf at the far end of the living room. I wander over to it, scanning the eclectic mix of hardcovers and paperbacks: Franzen. Perotta. Atwood. Bukowski. The spines are worn, if not broken in some cases. I don’t think the collection is for show. Justin is a reader.
“Hey, this is audience-participation,” he calls from the kitchen. “Come in here and get ready to do some work.”
Justin’s sleeves are rolled up, and he looks very excited. Happy.
The counter is filled with a bunch of leafy lettuce, a cup of cashews, shallots, and a bottle of coconut oil.
“Since you’re an Italian gal, I’m going to do pasta. But quinoa pasta — gluten free, high in protein. Organic. A whole different ballgame.”
He hands me the lettuce. “Wash this for me. Swiss chard can be sandy so just rinse it really well.”
It’s been about twenty-five years since someone has told me what to do in the kitchen. Probably not since my grandmother put me to work for her full-on traditional Italian Friday night meal with fish, pasta, the whole deal. She taught me everything I know about cooking, but I can bet she never heard of quinoa or Swiss chard.
Justin shows me how to cut the thick stems off of the chard leaves. He slices the leaves into small strips by stacking the leaves on top of each other, rolling them into a tube shape before slicing. I watch the way his hands move confidently and expertly, an artist at work. I notice the small blonde hairs on the back of his wrist, and my attraction to him is so strong that I barely hear what he’s saying — something about making a cashew cream sauce.
He hands me a lemon and an unfamiliar tool with a wide rubber handle and a fork-like razor. “It’s a zester,” he says. “Just scrape it along the surface of the lemon. The very outer layer of the skin will come off in
“No.”
“Yeah. So that’s why I got into it. Productivity. But superfoods are cancer fighting.”
“I should eat better,” I admit.
“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll show you how to cook healthier, if you promise not to quit on The List.”
“You can cook?”
“It’s probably the thing I do second best.”
“What’s the first?”
He smiles suggestively. I walked right into that one.
“When and where is this alleged super-food cooking going to happen?”
“Now. Tonight. My place.”
His apartment? I have to admit, I’m curious. Damn, he knows how to suck me right in. I’m willing to play the fool for one more night.
“Fine.”
“Oh no,” he says, smiling. I notice a dimple in his left cheek. “You need to say it’s a deal.”
“You drive a hard bargain. Fine. It’s a deal.”
Chapter 11
The Parc Rittenhouse, on the east side of Rittenhouse Square at South 18th Street, is a luxury condominium that feels like a hotel. The lobby is all marble and granite in black and ivory. In the elevator, he pushes the button for twenty, the top floor.
I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman .
He opens the door to a pristine, chrome and glass apartment that is spotless and almost bare.
“Very homey. Lived in,” I joke.
“At least I invited you in,” he says. Ouch. Got me with that one.
The floor plan is open, almost loft-like. I have a view of the ultra modern kitchen, where Justin is already pulling ingredients from his silver Sub-Zero.
A massive flat screen takes up one wall facing the black couch. Speakers set high in the corners of the ceiling indicate any movie viewing would be a theater-like experience. The rest of the furniture is all sharp angles and bare surfaces, no knick-knacks to clue me in to favorite travel spots, not family photos. I’m disappointed not to find more obvious clues about him, until I notice a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf at the far end of the living room. I wander over to it, scanning the eclectic mix of hardcovers and paperbacks: Franzen. Perotta. Atwood. Bukowski. The spines are worn, if not broken in some cases. I don’t think the collection is for show. Justin is a reader.
“Hey, this is audience-participation,” he calls from the kitchen. “Come in here and get ready to do some work.”
Justin’s sleeves are rolled up, and he looks very excited. Happy.
The counter is filled with a bunch of leafy lettuce, a cup of cashews, shallots, and a bottle of coconut oil.
“Since you’re an Italian gal, I’m going to do pasta. But quinoa pasta — gluten free, high in protein. Organic. A whole different ballgame.”
He hands me the lettuce. “Wash this for me. Swiss chard can be sandy so just rinse it really well.”
It’s been about twenty-five years since someone has told me what to do in the kitchen. Probably not since my grandmother put me to work for her full-on traditional Italian Friday night meal with fish, pasta, the whole deal. She taught me everything I know about cooking, but I can bet she never heard of quinoa or Swiss chard.
Justin shows me how to cut the thick stems off of the chard leaves. He slices the leaves into small strips by stacking the leaves on top of each other, rolling them into a tube shape before slicing. I watch the way his hands move confidently and expertly, an artist at work. I notice the small blonde hairs on the back of his wrist, and my attraction to him is so strong that I barely hear what he’s saying — something about making a cashew cream sauce.
He hands me a lemon and an unfamiliar tool with a wide rubber handle and a fork-like razor. “It’s a zester,” he says. “Just scrape it along the surface of the lemon. The very outer layer of the skin will come off in
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