Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“An honest mistake? Making a mistake like this when you know how much it means to me just shows how you really feel about me.”
Oh, sweet mother of mercy, what is happening right now?
Instantly, she was on her feet, throwing both arms up in the air in anger, and I tried, I really fluffing tried, not to look at the glorious way her now-growing tits looked beneath that tank top, but I was powerless against the sight of them.
“Stop staring at my tits, Thatcher!” she shouted, and that was when I knew we’d reached an actual state of emergency. I didn’t have a direct line to the governor, but hell, maybe Kline did and could pull some strings for me because no one should have been allowed to come within one square mile of this place right now.
Cassie stomped back toward me, picked up my plate with my perfectly delicious, only-taken-two-bites-of-it burrito and tossed the thing onto the floor.
“There!” she screeched like she was fucking Braveheart and had just won a goddamn war. “Bet you’re rethinking the cheese now, huh?”
I wanted to say that I’d been rethinking the cheese on her burrito since the moment she morphed into a lunatic and started acting like it was a way to say I didn’t love her, but I kept that shit to myself.
I swear, it was like her hormones were controlling her with puppet strings from above or something. I knew my wife was crazy, but this woman standing before me with the luscious tits may have looked a lot like my wife, but man, she was nothing like my wife.
It was someone else.
Someone crazier.
Someone who would quite possibly murder me over a Chipotle burrito, but then continue on to star in her own murder mystery true crime show because, well, my wife was just that hot.
And at the end of the day, entertainment, as we all knew, was about being hot.
Though, if I were honest with myself, this wasn’t the first time since she’d gotten pregnant that I’d witnessed one of these irrational emotional outbursts that made me feel like I was having an out-of-body experience.
Cass’s craziness was something I’d always loved and enjoyed about her. Hell, it was one of the things that kept my dick hard nearly twenty-four seven. But I should’ve known that crazy I loved so much would reach another level when pregnancy hormones were involved.
But it was hard to get used to the way her pregnant crazy pendulum swung while dodging silverware. I juked and weaved as she threw a fork in my direction and huffed a final time.
She stormed out of the living room and into the kitchen, and I sat there for a good two minutes, trying to figure out the best way to dismantle this bomb without our apartment going up into flames.
When I realized Philmore was heading toward burrito number two for the night, I jumped into action, standing up from the couch, cleaning up the food remnants off the floor before our pig could end his life with Chipotle, and headed into the demon’s layer—aka the kitchen.
My beautiful, slightly—fully—psychotic wife stood at the counter, her back to me, a terrifying sound reverberating into the silence.
Chop. Chop. Chop, chop, chop.
The speed alternated slow and quick, and each slice sent a shiver up my spine.
I’ll be honest, I’m kind of scared of her right now.
And I was pretty certain she had a big, sharp knife in her possession.
Not good.
When I carefully stepped closer, I realized I was right. A huge motherfluffer of a knife was in her hands, and she was cutting up her favorite spicy pickles.
Thank everything I had the foresight to pick up some of those fuckers from the store yesterday when I made that Doritos run for her…
Truthfully, for the past few weeks, she’d been eating up those spicy things like she was participating in some kind of “hot foods” challenge, and it was damn near impossible to keep her stocked.
“Honey, can I help you with anything?” I asked cautiously, keeping my arms in front of my body just in case she snapped right into slicing and dicing. I’d seen on NCIS that keeping your arms up and in front of you was a good technique for surviving a stabbing with only superficial wounds. She turned around, the knife still in her hand and pointed directly at me.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve done enough, Thatcher.”
Oh boy. The way she said my name was eerily similar to the way your mom sounded when she scolded you as a kid. Normally, I’d admit, the whole naughty scolding bit would have turned me the fluff on, but you know…the knife. Coupled with genuine anger on her part, it really had a way of changing things.
“How about I finish cleaning up the living room?”
“It’s your mess,” she spat. “You can do whatever the fluff you want with it.”