Dear Mr. Brody (For Him Book 3) by A.M. Johnson

Author:A.M. Johnson [Johnson , A.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A.M. Johnson
Published: 2021-08-04T16:00:00+00:00

Donovan

The pat of butter sizzled in the hot pan, my damp hair falling into my eyes as I bent down to grab a pot for the pasta. I filled it with water and set it on the stove to boil while I finished chopping the mushrooms. I didn’t even know if Parker liked mushrooms. For all I knew, he could be allergic to them. I exhaled, edgy and anxious, my hands shaking as I picked up the knife. I thought I wouldn’t be this wound up after the other night. Mutual orgasms should have been enough of an ice breaker, but evidently, the more I liked a person, the more my mind found ways to make me nervous. I’d spent most of my day trying to catch up on work. I had two manuscripts I needed to finish, and a few more papers to grade, but my eyes kept drifting to my damn couch. From my office, I had a straight view through the living room. My mind kept recalling every sound he’d made, every touch, every kiss, and I’d end up reading the same page over and over again. I wondered if it had been enough for him. Or if he’d want more tonight. I was ready for more. All these thoughts had inevitably ruined my ability to focus. Instead of doing what I was supposed to, I’d opened the files he’d sent me last night and reread the stories he’d written about his father for a third time.

Parker had a brilliant mind. His writing voice mature beyond his years. I’d considered sending his stories to Anders, but I needed his permission first. His prose was vivid and alive, every sentence a reel of film rolling across the page. His life, in his words, played out like one of those old family home movies, steeped in sepia-colored tones, where everything seemed slightly out of focus and sped up, and as I’d read, my eyes and chest burned with a sentiment that only the past could create. By giving me those stories, he’d opened a window, lifted the shade, and let me in. I might not know what food Parker preferred, but I’d felt his pain, his loss, the pieces of his past. It wasn’t all of him, but it was enough to know I’d made the right choice by taking a chance on this. On us.

Distracted by my thoughts again, the butter started to smoke.

“Shit.”

I removed the pan from the heat, setting it in the sink. The stench of burnt butter filled the room and I cracked open the window, hopefully saving my ears from the smoke detector in the living room. After a few minutes, the room cleared out, but as I turned on the water to wash the pan, it splashed back, splattering brown grease onto my shirt. I tried to clean it off with a dish rag, but it only made it worse. Pissed at myself, I turned off both burners, and left the mess in the kitchen.

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