Method for Matrimony – Jupiter Tides Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Suspense Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement

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And even if I did those things all at once, they didn’t quite block out all that noise. I’d tried it. I’d tried pretty much everything.

Kip Goodman was the only man who could take me completely outside myself, if only for the length of time his dick was inside me—and he was pretty fucking great at keeping it hard and inside for a glorious amount of time.

So yes, sometimes in the dark of the night, I almost wavered. I almost got out of bed and crept to his room.

But for what?

I was getting absolutely no signs that he was still attracted to me. No, he was making it pretty clear that he wasn’t, that he didn’t even like me.

And I didn’t like him.

Therefore, even the pregnancy hormones and the pain of the past could not urge me to go beg for his cock. Nothing would make me do that.

I wasn’t even halfway through this pregnancy, and the next twenty-two weeks yawned in front of me like a fucking chasm.

I was idly thinking about all of this while staring out the window at the ocean and picking at salt and vinegar chips that would never be as good as Smiths from back in Australia.

Weird I didn’t call it ‘home.’

I wondered if it ever was.

The door opened and closed, and I jumped.

Usually, I’d hear the telltale crunch of gravel underneath the wheels of his truck to announce his arrival. And usually, I’d either hide in my bedroom, put headphones on, or go sit outside until the man in question was out of my sight.

But I didn’t do any of those things.

I continued eating my chips at the counter, suddenly furious that I had to walk around on eggshells in my own fucking house.

Even worse, it wasn’t even my own fucking house because fucking Kip owned it.

The asshole.

What I wanted to do was buy it off him. Except, unlike him, I was not in the position to buy a damn house with cash, and my precarious immigration status meant securing a loan would likely be impossible. That and I didn’t even have the money for a down payment. What savings I did have for a rainy day was staying where it was because I’d heard kids were expensive.

If I had expected to be having a kid at this point in my life, I wouldn’t have been so blasé about my lifestyle and my finances. I would’ve saved, invested, not bought a five-thousand-dollar couch—that was absolutely dreamy and hugged me better than any man could—that had at least gotten a good amount of use in my first trimester. Since I thought I was barren, I hadn’t done any of that. Therefore, I was in a situation where I had to rely on my fucking fake husband to keep a roof over my head and my pregnant ass in the country.

It was safe to say I scowled at him when he walked in the door.

He jerked when his eyes met mine. Literally jerked. Like he was so shocked to see me in my kitchen. Or maybe he was shocked at the hostility. He shouldn’t have been.

Though I had plenty of choice words and diatribes I had practiced hurling at him, I kept my lips pursed and eyes on him. No way was I speaking first. No way was I backing down. This was my fucking house, no matter what it said on the deed.

Kip recovered quickly, having been blank-faced and taken aback at my presence. It only took him a handful of seconds to regain that cold composure that hurt me a lot more than I admitted to even myself.

“Good, you’re home,” he muttered.

Home.

Yes.

This was it.

And he was fucking it all up.

“Where else would I be?” I asked, snatching a chip from the bag and crunching angrily.

Kip’s gaze found the bag of chips, lingering there for longer than was normal to look at a bag of chips before it returned to me. Or, more aptly, the space slightly above my head, since he didn’t make eye contact with me anymore.

Because he was a huge stinking coward.

Though, unfortunately, he did smell good. Even now, coming straight from work, covered in construction dust and paint. He smelled like dirt and musk and him. My nose was like a bloodhound’s these days, and I found almost all scents abhorrent. Which caused somewhat of a crisis considering I worked at a bakery that was a glorious combination of smells, usually pleasing, now downright assaulting.

But Kip. Kip. Of course, he was one of the small handful of things that actually smelled good to me—somehow weirdly, Rowan’s dog was also on that list.

Kip didn’t respond to my sarcastic and hostile question, though his jaw tightened. Instead, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and placed a notepad, of all things, on the kitchen counter.

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