Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Shit, shit.
I need to get a hold of myself before I rip that dress right off her.
“You look good,” I tell her, clearing my throat. The lukewarm words are at odds with the erection from hell. She better not look at me too closely. “The color brings out your eyes.”
Her lips turn up, wider than before.
Goddammit, this whole mess is worth it just to see her smile like that, with a lightness she hasn’t had for ages, if she ever had it at all.
“I could never afford something like this,” she confesses. “Are you sure I can keep it?”
“Only if you promise to wear it again.”
A laugh bubbles out of her and my self-control frays more.
“Only if I have somewhere to wear it. This thing would be wasted on the store or Sunday dinners at Nana’s.”
“I’ll take you somewhere nice, dammit,” I promise. “Dinner, somewhere, when it’s all said and done.”
Stupid, really, to make lofty promises when we’re supposed to revert back to being strangers.
Only, when she smiles at me like Aphrodite incarnate, I might just promise her the entire world.
“Hell, you could bring your grandmother along, if you want.” I try to downplay it.
“Nana?” She comes closer, and I barely resist the urge to back away. Or better, march her straight into the bedroom. She’s put makeup on, and the subtle matte shade on her lips makes me want to kiss her like mad. “I never thought you’d want to deal with that again.”
“Right now, I can’t say I want to deal with anyone but you, Sweet Stuff,” I growl, my voice too raw.
Stupid fuck.
Because now she’s looking at me with the same wide-eyed gaze that makes my cock demanding and way too prone to overruling my head.
“Dex…” She licks her lips. For fuck’s sake. “Shouldn’t we go? I think we’re going to be late.”
“Yeah. Good catch.” It’s like she knows it, too. If we don’t get moving, we’ll risk doing something we’ll both regret. “The car’s downstairs.”
“You make a wonderful chauffeur,” she says, accepting my hand. Now she’s closer and I can smell her perfume. Floral, with a few sultry tropical notes that invite me to bend her over the back of the sofa and—
And it’s definitely time to go.
“Pretty sure chauffeurs don’t propose to their clients,” I say, leading her out as she blows Catness a parting kiss.
She’s put the ring back on her finger and it looks damn good.
“Neither do businessmen,” she teases, sliding her hand in mine once more as we head for the stairs.
“You’re right, I make a terrible businessman. I’m pretending at that too.”
She giggles, and for a second, I forget we’re heading off to be roasted and fawned over by my mother.
“You sure this is the best place for you?” I ask as we step around the glass on the stairs. “You ever thought about something newer?”
Something safer is what I really mean.
Her face screws up. “I’ve been surviving off discount soup for the past three months. What area do you suggest that’s better and still affordable?”
“You’re the owner of a successful bakery. You shouldn’t settle for—”
“Look, I told you before,” she interrupts. “The kind of orders we’ve had the last few weeks are new to me. So is having money. Until now, we weren’t exactly thriving. I need to make sure my people get paid and equipment works before I dive into any personal improvements.”
Of course.
Selfless to a fault.
“I’m putting a real lock on your door, at least,” I bite off as we reach the door outside. “Are you ready?”
“To deceive your entire family today? I can’t wait! But yeah. Let’s get this done.” There’s something hard in her eyes as she glances up at me.
At least she hates this shit as much as I do.
Mom commandeers the whole park for her art show, letting local artists rent booths for a token fee and encouraging everyone to buy their wares. Junie’s eyes are wide as we arrive, darting from one booth to the next.
“Wow. It’s like its own little market,” she breathes. “Your mom organizes all this?”
“That’s right. She’s hopelessly in love with art.”
“Does she sell her own stuff too?”
“She considers herself more of a patron. She’s been known to show off her creations every so often, though.” Just like Archer and Colt, though they’re more into woodwork than painting.
The creative gene skipped me and I envy it sometimes, but I suppose I make up for it by being more grounded, more focused on hard numbers that make or break the future.
After sampling some Danish meatballs from a food truck—frikadeller—we wander across to Mother’s command post at a long table advertising the event and taking donations.
Patton’s already there, no doubt buttering her up, and he raises a hand in greeting as we approach.
Like always, her table looks subtle. She’s offering a few small watercolors of cardinals, the bright-red birds glowing like blood on sunlit branches and rural winter scenes.