Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“And how many bands do you manage, now? Let me guess—none.” He smirked, pointedly looking at her left hand. “And no husband either. So, no career, no family. No wonder you avoid the shop every time you’re home. I wouldn’t want to see me either. I told you you’d fail.”
I fucking lost it.
6
ZOE
Guess Peter hadn’t grown up after all. He looked exactly the same—dark hair, hazel eyes, slightly crooked nose. The same but tired, and about thirty pounds on the Dad-bod side. At one time, my world had revolved around this guy, and now I wasn’t even attracted to him.
I was, however, completely mortified by his on-point assessment of my life.
“The fact that I don’t eat ice cream when I’m in town has nothing to with you,” I assured him, my hands clenching the no-longer-steaming cups of apple cider. It felt like half the town was watching our little reunion.
“Hey, baby.”
Oh God, no.
I turned slightly toward Nixon’s voice and found him smiling down at me. Great, now he’d have more than enough ammunition for the next six months of his let’s-piss-Zoe-off game. Wait. Did he just call me baby?
Before I could form a phrase, his hand splayed possessively over my hip, and he tugged me against him, the fingers of his other hand tunneling through my hair. It was only sheer dumb luck that kept me from spilling the cider.
What the—
He kissed me.
Nixon Winters was kissing me with those impossibly soft lips. It was wrong—I knew that somewhere—but it felt so deliciously good I couldn’t bring myself to care.
He swiped his tongue across my lower lip, and I gasped.
He took complete control, sliding into my mouth like he already owned it, laying claim to every line and curve with nimble strokes and swirls of his tongue. Holy shit, he kissed like he played guitar—like nothing else mattered on the planet, and in that moment, nothing else did. He wiped away the rest of the world and altered the universe so it centered around us.
It blew every kiss I’d ever had out of the water, and I surrendered to it, kissing him back, chasing the taste of lemons and raspberry that clung to his lips. His grip tightened, pulling me closer, angling my head so he could take me deeper, then groaning softly when I flicked my tongue against the roof of his mouth. Then he sucked my tongue all the way in, and I melted.
I wanted to rake my hands through his hair, to tug on the strands and hold him prisoner so I could live in this one moment where he desired me. My hands ached to slide my fingers under his jacket and shirt to trace the lines of his abs, and I wasn’t going to stop where his jeans began. Longing filled me, demanding to touch, to taste, to feel every single part of Nixon, but my hands were already full for a reason I couldn’t seem to remember.
“Zoe,” he growled against my mouth.
My knees weakened, my entire body humming with energy, and his grip shifted to my ass, gently lifting me from my feet with one arm, but it felt more supportive than passionate—as if he’d recognized exactly what he’d done to me. A soft whimper escaped my lips as I felt him hardening against my stomach from what I’d done to him.
He slowed and drew my lower lip between his teeth, gently raking the flesh before letting it slip free, ending the kiss with his mouth but somehow continuing it with his eyes as he looked down at me.
“Sorry, I couldn’t wait another second.” His voice was low and rough as his gaze darted to my lips again, like he was already planning a return trip.
“I’m glad you didn’t.” I meant it.
He slowly steadied me on my feet, and I blinked as the rest of the world came into focus. Oh God. Nixon had just kissed me in front of the entire town, and I’d liked it. “Liked” wasn’t even the right word. I’d been consumed by it—by him.
What was he thinking?
Scratch that. What was I thinking? I was supposed to be keeping him sober, not kissing him, let alone jumping him in the park.
And what was that sound?
I stepped away from Nixon, but he simply moved to my side, keeping his hand at my waist as the other adjusted the angle of the cup I was holding—and spilling, hence the sound. I’d sloshed out at least half of our cider onto the grass.
“This one’s yours,” I muttered.
“Thanks, Zo.” He pressed a kiss to my temple and took the cup from my hand. “Who’s your friend?”
My face whipped forward.
Peter stood in front of us with his mouth gaping open, and it clicked. The kiss. The baby. The adoring look. It was all for Peter’s sake. How much of our conversation had Nixon heard? Was I supposed to be thankful for Nixon’s intervention or pissed it hadn’t been real? Because I was both.