Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Annabelle:
I’m sorry, what? I had to read that to make sure my eyes were reading what I thought I read.
Me:
No, you read that right. And I’m hiding in the bedroom—Not His Bedroom, the guest bedroom—because we just had a sexy kiss in the pool and now I have no idea what to do next. Like. Wht the Hell Do I Do???
Annabelle:
You kissed Hayes Fielder. The guy who never smiles.
Me:
Oh, he smiles alright . . .
Annabelle:
Oh my god. Are You Fucking Serious?? Pardon my language but Holy Shit.
This is exactly the response I was expecting.
Annabelle:
I’m sorry—that wasn’t helpful, I know. Okay. PHEW! Deep breath. Are you safe? Do you feel good about this?
Me:
Yes and yes. Too good. Like feral-good.
I want to climb him like a tree. Lick him all over.
But I don’t want a broken heart. Do not want to feel discarded once I arrive home in a few days.
Annabelle:
Quick, without thinking, what do you want? Go.
Me:
To kiss him again. To not overthink it. To not make it weird for his daughter.
Annabelle:
Boundaries, then. No PDA in front of his kid, no common spaces, yes to kissing, yes to screwing your brains out, yes to open communication.
Annabelle:
Like I said, don’t over think it. I know it’s easy for me to say, but have F U N!!!! Have fun. But also, don’t do what I did and get so drunk you get married, then have a baby nine months later Hahahahaha.
Oh shit, I’d forgotten about that, suddenly feeling like a total shit for not asking about her cute little family.
Annabelle fires off another message before I can type.
Annabelle:
I didn’t mean to phrase it like that LOL. We’d do it again, with less alcohol. Go have fun. Shower, put on something soft, and enjoy yourself. Text me in the morning, I want details.
Me:
I owe you a full debrief. Kiss your hubby and baby for me.
Annabelle:
Will do. Go be kissed.
When I pad into the kitchen an hour later, the house is quiet in that soft end-of-day way.
Benny is perched on a stool in her jammies, swinging her feet and munching on the last slice of an apple. Hayes stands at the sink, filling a glass. Bright-white T-shirt, damp hair, gray sweatpants.
Ugh! Not the gray sweatpants!
I do my best not to allow my eyes to drag down the front of them in search of a dick stamp, and pat myself on the back for being successful.
He nods at me pleasantly as I approach, leaning across the counter to address his daughter. “Bedtime in five.” He slides her water glass across the counter like a bartender. “Deal?”
She considers, glances at me standing in the doorway, then plops her chin in her hand. “Can we make spice-pumpkin muffins first? So I can have them for breakfast?”
A girl after my own heart . . .
Hayes’s brows jump. “Right now? No.”
“Please, Dad?”
He shakes his head but offers her a compromise. “What if Layla and I bake you muffins instead, once you hit the sack? Would you like that?”
“Deal,” she says, already sliding off the stool. “The giant kind?”
“Sure.” He scoops her up, kisses her temple. “Brush teeth. Bed. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Little feet patter away, then pad up the stairs.
“I’ll help her,” Hayes says, already moving. “Back in a few.”
The house is quiet, and I glance around, taking it all in, the way I wasn’t able to when we arrived, since we went straight to the pool. The oven looks like it could land a plane—sleek steel, red knobs, shiny patina. Next to it? A narrow glass-front fridge hums, rows of wine labels lined up like yummy, delicious soldiers.
I roll my sleeves and get to work like I live here.
Big mixing bowl—top drawer left of the range. Smaller nesting bowls? Island cabinet. Measuring cups and spoons? Drawer with a soft-close I daydream about having in my kitchen someday but probably never will.
I root around some more and find cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla in the baking cupboard.
By the time his voice drifts down the hall, I have most of the ingredients laid on the counter. His perfect little sous chef.
The kitchen is ready.
So am I.
Chapter 13
Hayes
I tuck Benny in, tell her a dragon story—one chapter and a half like always—and stand for a second in the doorway, watching her breathing settle. She smells like toothpaste and pool. “Night, Benny Boo.”
A small thumbs-up floats out of the blankets as I click off her light. “Love you.”
Everything’s set out when I wander back to the kitchen—tins lined with big shiny wrappers. Cans of pumpkin, bowls, and spoons. I sidle up beside Layla, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Low-key give her a sniff.
She may be in a sweatshirt and sleep shorts, but she’s sexier to me now than when she was bobbing in my pool in that barely there bikini. Because now I know what she tastes like. How she fits when I pull her into my body . . .