HIS STRIPPER, HIS WIFE novel Chapter 92

Chapter 92

Bianca

After minutes of waiting, my phone buzzed again. “Girl, you surprise me everyday,” Amanda replied.

“You surprised yourself too first,” I typed back quickly, smiling at the screen like she could actually see me.

“But I hear you ma’am, enjoy your day because I’m really going to enjoy mine,” she sent, and I just smiled at that, shaking my head at how easily she let things go sometimes.

“Staff’s all cleared out,” Adrian said, walking back into the room phone tucked into his back pocket. I didn’t even notice that he had left the room in the first place. “You can come down now if you’re hungry.”

“Huh?” I said bending my head.

“Oh, sorry. I mean… let’s go down together now.”

I dropped my phone on the bed and followed him out, my bare feet cold against the marble as we made our way down the staircase. I didn’t have much choice on what to eat since I wasn’t exactly dressed to go raiding a stranger’s kitchen with confidence, but luckily there was food left behind by whoever cooked for him, sitting neatly in containers inside the fridge.

I pulled a few of them out and mixed what looked like it belonged together, sliding everything into the microwave to reheat while Adrian leaned against the counter watching me work like it was the most entertaining thing he had seen all week.

“You cook?” he asked, arms crossed.

“I reheat,” I corrected him. “There’s a difference.”

“Fair enough,” he said, laughing, and pulled two plates down from a cabinet before I even had to ask.

We ate at the counter, him cracking jokes the whole time about how bad his own cooking skills were compared to whatever his chef usually made, telling me a story about the one time he tried to make noodles and somehow ended up needing a fire extinguisher.

I laughed so hard at one point I almost choked on a piece of plantain, and he had to hand me a glass of water while still laughing himself, clearly proud of the reaction he had gotten out of me.

When we finished eating, we moved to the sitting room, settling onto one of the large couches close enough that our knees kept brushing every time either of us shifted.

The television was on low in the background, more for noise than anything either of us was actually watching, and for a while we just sat there talking about nothing in particular.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, turning slightly to face me, one arm stretched along the back of the couch.

“Depends on the question,” I said, rolling my eyes at him playfully.

“What type of men do you usually go for?” he asked, and I felt my eyes widen at the randomness of the question.

“That’s oddly specific for a random question,” I said, trying to buy myself a little time to think of an answer that wouldn’t sound too revealing.

“Just curious,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing, though the look on his face said otherwise.

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