Method for Matrimony – Jupiter Tides Read Online Anne Malcom

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

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He handed me the plate, which I rested on my stomach. I grabbed a brownie, shoving it into my mouth.

“Oh my god,” I moaned, mouth still full of brownie. “These are good. Fucking great.”

I wasn’t lying.

Kip was no slouch in the kitchen. Everything he made me was wonderful. But I didn’t think he was the baking type.

I was wrong.

And I’d been so distracted with all the chocolatey goodness that I didn’t realize Kip wasn’t retreating now that he’d quieted the hysterical pregnant woman with brownies and preteen wizards.

No, he sat on the end of the sofa, grasping my legs and pulling them so they rested in his lap.

“What are you doing?” I asked, halfway through the second brownie. I tried to pull my feet back, but his grip was too tight.

“Shh,” he said. “I’m watching this guy do something with that stick.” He gestured to the screen with one hand, the other rubbing my foot.

Then, the second joined in. Then, my eyes rolled to the back of my head as his strong fingers found the right spot.

Even though I should’ve had a lot of questions, I didn’t ask them. I let Kip rub my feet while I ate brownies and watched Harry Potter.

fourteen

The Crash

When I woke, I did it with hope.

Everyone had said Kip would come around once the reality of the baby set in, once he got out of his own way. Well, everyone had said that at the start, all certain and sure. But as the weeks wore on, I saw my—and his—friends slowly doubt themselves and those declarations. But they didn’t abandon them completely. Even Nora, amongst all her fury at him, had remained hopeful for that miracle.

Me?

Nah.

I tended to believe people when they showed the worst of themselves. Now, that didn’t mean I wrote them off because of that. The worst parts of me could be pretty fucking bad. But when people showed only the worst parts of themselves without anything to redeem that—like my first husband, for example—you would be best served to believe it.

I’d learned that the hard way.

So, I did not have hope that Kip would come around.

Except for last night.

He’d looked at me and woken up something I thought was long dead. He made me brownies. He put on Harry Potter. He sat on the sofa with me and rubbed my feet. And he had obviously carried me to bed, because the last thing I remembered was contemplating a fourth brownie, Harry fighting Professor Quirrell/Voldemort, and Kip’s fingers working my instep.

Now I was in my bed.

Not only had Kip been kind to me when I was overwhelmed and a mess, but he’d known the cure was Harry Potter and had made brownies. From scratch. Not just that, he’d touched me, worked at my feet almost like… almost like a husband might with his pregnant wife.

Now, that did not mean he was forgiven. Not by a long shot. And I wasn’t overcome with unrealistic fantasies about us being a big happy family. But I was glimpsing something other than ships passing in the night, each leeching resentment onto the other. Maybe a different kind of life than that of a single mother and an absent father.

I grappled for my phone, finding it was only six in the morning. For once, I didn’t want to curl under my duvet and sleep for a thousand years. I felt awake. Aware. Ready for the day.

That wasn’t entirely because of Kip.

It was because I’d purged a lot last night. A whole bunch of shit I’d been holding in. Tears that had gone unshed for fucking years.

Sometimes a long and messy cry was enough to feel refreshed anew. That and chocolate brownies.

And perhaps a guy rubbing your feet.

The sounds of Kip moving through the kitchen filtered through the house. He wasn’t being noisy, but the house was small, and he likely wasn’t going out of his way to be quiet either. I slept like the dead. Something he’d teased me about relentlessly—after he’d woken me up with his mouth between my legs.

My toes curled at the mere memory, and my libido fired up with need.

Maybe, just maybe, if he decided to stop being an asshole, I could get his mouth between my legs again. I wouldn’t have to forgive him to get an orgasm out of him. It was the least he could do, really.

With renewed vigor, I got out of bed, changed out of the ratty sweatpants I’d been wearing, and opted for a light, semi-see-through slip dress that I usually wore over bikinis. I slung a kimono over it but left it untied. Then I quickly washed my face and brushed my teeth.

My eyes were still slightly red, and my face was a little swollen, but I looked okay. I hadn’t had my highlights done since I peed on the stick, so my dirty-blonde roots were showing amongst the artificial streaks of golden and white-blonde. I’d let it grow a little longer, past my shoulders.

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