Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
The sensation even more so.
I grind my teeth.
“Miss Lark, up. Wake up.”
She doesn’t.
If anything, my words only push her deeper into sleep. Her lips curve up as she lets out a drowsy mumble.
“Daddy.”
“No.” My eyes widen. “I am not your father, woman.”
Just what the hell have I gotten myself into?
She still isn’t moving. I can’t prop the laptop on her head and press on with my work, can I?
Swallowing a growl, I close my computer, tuck it back in my bag, and then settle in to look out the window. Somehow, I must endure this until I can hand this impertinent brat with no boundaries off to someone who can help her annoy the rest of the world.
I catch Rick watching in the rearview mirror with clear amusement and bare my teeth.
“Not one word,” I bite off. “Drive.”
“Of course, sir.”
He tries not to smile.
He fails miserably.
That was three words, when I said not one.
What the fuck ever.
Grumbling to myself, I glare out the window, trying like hell not to breathe in her sweetness. She’s wearing some scent that’s floral and sweet like apples.
I try my damnedest to ignore the soft bundle of woman in my lap while I watch morning struggling to break through a light rain in golden sheets over the hills of Seattle.
III
BE MY SUNSHINE
(ELLE)
I was having the nicest dream.
My parents were actually home for Christmas. Dad wasn’t staying overseas at one of his company’s corporate offices handling trade negotiations. Mom wasn’t in her city of the month as a traveling nurse. We were at our old house in Laurelhurst, almost as cozy as my grandmother’s cottage on Queen Anne Hill.
Gran was there, too, of course.
We were laughing and sharing hot apple cider. The whole house smelled like baking cookies and Mom’s fancy perfume. We opened presents together at home, instead of my gifts coming by mail from two separate addresses with two separate apology notes.
It’s the family life I never had but always wanted.
For a hot minute, the dream is so deep and rich and wonderful that I almost believe it was real.
Gran opens her mouth to say something. I expect to hear Merry Christmas, my little Elle in her happy, slightly warbling voice.
Instead, the sound of a blaring car horn comes shrieking out of her mouth, louder and louder, until it jolts me awake.
This is not helping my head—though at least it’s a normal headache now and not the sledgehammer migraine I remember having before I fell asleep.
Wait.
. . . when did I fall asleep?
My last memory is getting off the plane at SeaTac, staggering through the terminal, and—
I think I passed out as the migraine got the better of me?
I don’t know what happened after that.
But why do I hear traffic noise and feel motion like I’m in a car?
What’s this dark, musky sandalwood smell?
Whose lap am I resting my head in? And whose very male bulge am I staring at?
“Sorry, sir. Seems to be a traffic issue up ahead. You know Seattle drivers and slick roads.”
“Yeah,” a chocolate-silk masculine grunt acknowledges.
I freeze.
Those slacks. That warmth. The raw power of a hard-muscled thigh under my head . . .
Jet Daddy?
Oh my God, say it isn’t so.
Carefully, I peek up without turning my head.
Sure enough, I’m treated to a view of his sharp beard and strong throat from below.
He’s leaning against the door in the back seat of whatever car we’re in, his elbow against the bottom of the window and his strong, stark knuckles curled under his chin.
His blue eyes reflect back the icy drizzle misting the city streets.
He’s taken off his suit coat, revealing a crisp white shirt and dark vest underneath, both fitted to his powerful body with trim precision.
His coat is draped over me as a blanket, I realize.
My heart thumps with confusion before it stalls like it’s too baffled to really know what to do.
How did I end up in this situation?
Where is he taking me?
He answers that question for me a minute later.
I don’t think I’ve given away the fact that I’m awake, but the man must have freakishly good senses—or a really prickly personal space bubble—because without even looking at me he rumbles, “If you’re awake, Miss Lark, kindly get out of my lap.”
“Um!”
My whole face burns.
I snap myself upright so crisply that I not only make myself dizzy, but I get myself tangled in both his suit coat and the seat belt strapped across me.
Holy hell, shoot me now.
I spend a few more seconds squirming like I’ve got ants in my pants, embarrassing myself even more, before I manage to fight upright.
Exhaling roughly, I blow my hair out of my face and look out the car window.
I recognize these streets.
We’re about two blocks from Grandma’s house.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“We’re almost to the address you gave me,” he interrupts. “I hope the address was correct, anyway.”