Not So Unwilling: Chapter Thirty Nine

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Here's chapter 39. Sorry if it seems like I'm rushing the story caus I kinda am. I just wanna get it freaking over with so i can start working on City Boy!!!!!!!!!


Chapter Thirty Nine

                Lauren and I went back to her house and I rummaged through her closet for an outfit to wear. Lauren was skinnier than me, so sometimes her clothes didn't fit on me, especially her jeans which didn't fit over my huge budunk.

                I finally found a nice black, tight miniskirt and a billowy white top that had this lace, flower design going on in the back and a pair of cowboy boots. I let my hair wild since I didn't feel like going through the pain of having to brush out the knots and curls.

                At 5:00, I started the short walk to Tim's house and walked to the front door. I rang the doorbell and Tim opened the door wearing a ridiculous white, chef's hat. He bowed and said in a horrible French accent, "Welcome, mademoiselle, to la resteraunte e Lenior."

                I laughed. "Tim, I think the only French part of that sentence was your last name."

                He feigned a hurt expression, "Mademoiselle is a French word!"

                I laughed again and poked him in the stomach. "I thought you said "I'm a tortoise shell."

                "Well, I'm sorry. I would have researched the correct French if I had known the language police was gonna show up," he said, rolling his eyes and pulling me into the warmth of his home... or castle which was the more appropriate term.

                The second I took a step into the foyer, the wonderful smell of cooking filled my nostrils. "Oh! It smells so good in here! What did you make?" I asked, walking in the direction of the food smell.

                Tim followed behind me. "It's a surprise."

                I continued to follow the smell all the way to a big room with a long, wooden table smack in the middle. Only one tiny section of the huge ass table was set up. It was for two.

                I walked over to the section and looked at the arrangement. A little vase of red roses was in the center of the creamy white tablecloth and there were two expensive looking plates set on each side each with a fork, knife, spoon, and neatly folded napkin.

                Tim pulled out a high-backed, wood chair and I sat down. "Wow, Tim. I never thought of you as such a romantic."

                Tim smiled and went over to a small serving table in the far corner of the bloody red room. "I hide it well."

                He came back with two bowls of soup, which was a yellowish color with little green things floating around that I figured were some kind of vegetable and tiny, baby meatballs, which were so freaking cute. "What's this?" I asked, picking up my spoon to taste it.

                Tim put his bowl on his plate and sat down a across from me. "Its real name is wedding soup, but I like to call it meatball soup."

                "Only a real chef makes up names for their creations," I said, taking a spoonful of the soup in my mouth.

                It was absolutely delicious with salty, but not too salty chicken broth, spinach cubes mixed with like egg and cheese, and tasty little meatballs that pretty much melted in my mouth.

                I looked up at Tim who was staring at me, trying to figure out whether I liked the soup or not. "Holy shit, Tim, this is like the best thing I have ever eaten in my life," I exclaimed, taking another bite.

                Tim smiled brightly, his dimple showing, which was kind of rare for him. "Don't make assumptions until you eat the other four courses."

                My eyes opened wide and I wished that I hadn't had that hot pocket for breakfast.

                "Are you trying to make me fat," I asked as Tim placed a plate on which stood a big piece of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and covered in white chocolate shavings. It looked absolutely delicious, but I was so full that even thinking of eating the entire thing made me want to go throw up.

                "You could use some extra meet on these bones," he said, picking up my wrist and wobbling it around.

                "You're full off shit, Tim," I said, reluctantly picking up my fork and taking bite of the cake.

                I ended up eating the entire thing, which I had not planned on. The cake had just been so good that there was no way I could not eat the entire thing. After everything was all done, I was pretty sure that I was going to throw up and second. I felt like a stuffed turkey on Thanksgiving. "Are you sure you're not Italian?" I asked as Tim and I went up to his room to chill until all the food in our stomachs digested and we wouldn't barf on the dance floor.

                "I swear to God that I'm not. I'm half Irish and half French.  All of my mom's family is from Ireland and all of my dad's family is from France," said Tim for about the hundredth time.

                "That's so weird because you remind me so much of my Italian grandmother," I said as we reached his bedroom. I went right for the bed and slowly climbed on it. I would have jumped, but any sudden movements would have caused all the food to upchuck and I was sure Tim wouldn't be happy if I barfed on the bed he slept in every night.

                "Wow, thanks, Jazz. That's exactly what I really wanted to hear: that I remind you of your old, Italian grandmother," he said sarcastically lying next to me.

                "Well, she makes really good food too and she makes so much of it. She won't let us leave until we eat every single morsel of it. Saying "no, thank you, I don't want any more pasta" is "I'll take two more servings" in her language. That's how I got this," I said, pinching the skin on my stomach.

                Tim smacked my hand away and pressed his warm hand on the spot on my lower stomach where I had pinched. "You're perfect, so I congratulate your Grandmother."

                I turned on my side so I was facing him. "You're so nice," I said, tracing his cleanly shaven jaw.

                "I'm truthful."

                I laughed and gently pressed my lips to his. "Thank you."

                He put his arm around my waist and kissed me back. "You're very welcome."







Mel Bell


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