Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Joshua steps into the spacious kitchen with its gleaming wood floors, raw, rough-cut log walls and copper-accented appliances. He’s my age—thirty-eight—and a very handsome man. His light brown hair is casually swept back from his clean-shaven face that shows not a bit of stubble this late in the day. He’s got a strong jaw, a perfect smile and crystal-blue eyes. He’s lean and angular, one of those men who can eat ten thousand calories a day and not gain an ounce, although he does nothing to work for that. It’s why he makes me so meticulously plan out every single meal in the evening and why he’ll be upset I’ve deviated from it. He knows he can eat all his favorites and nothing will stick to his gut.
Tonight’s pot roast was supposed to be a celebratory dinner. Joshua and his father opened a new hardware store on the southern shores of Lake Tahoe and it’s their favorite meal. Plain old pot roast, potatoes and carrots and they’re dining like kings.
Except I didn’t get the meal in the Crock-Pot, so it’s meatloaf instead.
They won’t care that I tried to get as close to that meal as possible with the same vegetables as well as protein, albeit cooked in a different way. This will be seen as a slight against them and ruin their celebration.
I’ll have to choose my words carefully tonight to avoid a major blowup by two men who love being angry, entitled sons of bitches.
Joshua’s eyes sweep over me critically as I hold the beer out to him. He takes it without a thank-you, bringing it to his mouth for a long pull. It’s not his first drink of the day nor will it be his last.
“What are you cooking?” he asks, eyes darting to the countertop where I’d normally have the Crock-Pot.
“Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and candied carrots.”
“That wasn’t what was on the menu,” he says. How can such a simple statement sound so dark and menacing?
“You know I didn’t have time to get it going before I left for the hospital.” My tone is calm, whisper light so he doesn’t take too much offense to my back talk.
Joshua sneers as he steps toward me. “Waste of your fucking time being at the hospital. Nothing you could have done for Lila, anyway.” He then leans in toward me, sniffs my neck. “Did you let him touch you?”
“Who?” I exclaim, taking a step back, but I know who he’s talking about.
“You did,” he says with a firm nod, advancing on me. “I can smell him on you.”
My mind whirls. I hugged Callum. Couldn’t help myself.
Was he wearing cologne? I can’t remember but it wouldn’t have stopped me from the gesture. He looked exhausted and his mother just came out of a serious surgery. There was nothing wrong with an embrace of friendship and comfort.
Except for the fact my husband hates Callum and can get blind with rage when talking about him. I tread carefully but decide for the truth because I did nothing wrong. “I gave him a hug—”
The slap catches me off guard, a left-handed pop to my cheek. It stings but doesn’t rock me the way a right-handed hit would have. Luckily, he holds his beer in his dominant hand.
Joshua then walks into me, backing me into the counter beside the stove. My heart pounds with fear because while this behavior is nothing new, I have no clue how far he’ll escalate.
Setting the bottle down, my husband cages me in with his hands. His glare is glacial, his words coated in poison. “You fucking slut. I bet you loved snuggling up to Callum, didn’t you?”
“No—”
Joshua grips the front of my throat and squeezes. It’s not enough to cut off my air but he’ll probably choke me before it’s all said and done. What’s more terrifying is that he forces my head to the left, trying to push me closer to the boiling pot of potatoes. My body locks and my hand slams onto the counter, pushing against him. If my hair weren’t on top of my head, it would have fallen into the flame under the burner. My skin starts to prickle from the heat.
“Joshua… stop it,” I scream.
“Bet Callum wouldn’t think you’re so pretty with that face scarred, now would he?”
I bring my knee up hard, hoping to catch him square in the balls, but he twists out of my reach. It’s enough that his grip loosens on my neck and I’m able to push away from the hot burner.
But he spins me around, pushing my stomach against the counter, pinning me there with his body. I feel his erection against my backside and bile rises in my throat. Nothing turns this man on more than hurting me.
“Stop it,” I growl as I try to twist away. He uses an open palm to clap me upside the head, hard enough it rattles my teeth. His hand then frantically works at the button on my jeans. “I said no,” I scream, throwing my head back so hard, I catch his chin.