Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“I did. And you’re welcome.”
“Thanks.” She hip-bumped him without thinking, then froze. “I didn’t mean—”
He hip-checked her back. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. We live together, Nova. We’re supposed to act like more than roommates, remember? Gonna be touchin’ a lot more than that to make it look fuckin’ real.”
She was impressed with how he switched from English to biker-speak seamlessly.
She grabbed his mug and refilled it along with topping off hers.
He turned with the full plates in his hand and tipped his head toward the table.
She followed him over, placed his mug next to his plate and sat across from him. “You’ll make someone a good wife,” she murmured, staring at the food that smelled delicious. Her stomach growled again.
His perfectly-aligned teeth crunched on a strip of bacon. “I thought so, too, until I had two broken engagements.”
“Two?”
He shrugged. “I got the touch, apparently.” He shoved the last of the bacon into his mouth.
“Or lack of touch.”
“That was never my problem.”
“Says you.” She took a bite of her own bacon. Perfectly done. Impressive.
“Can prove it to you if you wanna be the judge.”
She swallowed her mouthful. “I’ll take your word for it. So, you wanted the whole package, huh? Wife, kids, dog?” She picked up her fork and took a bite of the scrambled eggs. Once again, perfect.
She wondered if he could cook anything more complex than breakfast because she sure couldn’t. And if he could, she’d be taking advantage of any home-cooked meals he could pull off. Maybe he’d take some menu suggestions.
“Just the wife would’ve been fine. Maybe a couple of kids later down the road. But at this point I’ve given up on finding a life partner.”
With a frown, she lifted her gaze from her plate to him. “You’re too young to give up. You’re only in your thirties, right?”
“Thirty-five. Maybe I’m not cut out to be husband material.”
“Not every woman is cut out to be with a cop.” Neither was every man. Sometimes it was hard to turn off the law enforcement side of your brain once you got home. Being a state, local or federal officer also took a certain type of personality that not everyone could gel with no matter how hard they tried.
“That could be it. Dealing with badge bunnies, the risk that one day I might not end my shift alive, and the fear of your family getting targeted… I guess it could be stressful. Some women can only take the uncertainties for so long before bailing.”
“That’s why the divorce rate for our chosen career is so high. You also forgot to mention cheating. There’s a high probability of that, too.”
“I’ve never cheated.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Have you?”
“No.” She steered the conversation away from her before he brought up the Russos again. “At least your engagements were broken before getting to the altar. Divorces can be painful, long and costly. Especially when kids are involved.”
He snagged the ketchup from the center of the table and squirted the condiment over his two hash brown patties. “Have you been divorced?”
“Nope.”
“Engaged?”
“That would also be a negative,” she answered.
“An independent woman,” he concluded.
“That’s the way I prefer it. The toilet seat’s always down. The lights are always off in an empty room. Trash actually ends up in the garbage can. Oh, and my T-shirts don’t end up shrunken into crop tops.”
He shook his head and his warm, rich chuckle made her worry it could get as addicting as her need for coffee.
She sucked down more morning fuel as she shook that from her thoughts. “How long have you been a trooper?”
“Fourteen years. You?” He stabbed a chunk of eggs along with a piece of hash brown and shoved the forkful into his mouth.
“Zero.”
His eyes lifted to her, his eyebrows rose and he quickly swallowed his food. “Well, look at that, someone does have a sense of humor.”
She kept her expression blank. “Who does?”
“Kitten.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do badass biker bitches have a sense of humor?”
“If not, you can be the first. I’ll rephrase… How long have you been with the FBI?”
“Seems like forever, but actually since I was twenty-three. That’s the minimum age to be accepted and I went in as soon as they’d allow it.”
“And you’re what?” He thought for a second. “Thirty… one now?”
She forced herself to answer “Yeah” instead of “yes.”
He smiled. “Good girl.”
Her heart slammed to a stop before kicking back into high gear at that type of praise. He was testing her. “Oh no. You do not get to say that to me.” Even though the way he said it in his deep rumble almost made her kitty meow.
“Only Mafia daddies get to call you that?”
There it was… Proof that making breakfast was not a good litmus test to prove someone wasn’t an asshole. “No one gets to praise me like that, period. Not if they like how their balls currently hang.”