Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“It does,” I confirmed, walking forward to run my hand along the quilt. It must’ve taken months to stitch it together.
“My great-great-gram made that,” Otto said quietly.
“Really?”
“Or maybe my great-great-aunt. My parents got a few of them passed down and they gave it to me as a housewarming gift.”
“What a sweet gift,” I murmured.
“Most of the quilts I’ve seen—everybody has at least one—are smaller. Queen and twin sizes mostly—but there were only a couple of king-size made.”
“And you got one of them,” I said, looking up at him. “Lucky.”
Otto smiled. “Feelin’ luckier by the minute.”
I raised my eyebrows as he moved toward me. I wasn’t surprised when he reached behind me and tugged at my hair, making it fall like a rope down my back.
I’d known in the back of my mind that being alone at his house wasn’t a good idea, and the beat of arousal under my skin was the exact reason. If we were going to get married, I was determined to do things correctly, but I was under no illusion that I had any willpower whatsoever when it came to Otto Hawthorne.
Without the buffer of other people around us, I felt like the wick of a firecracker waiting for a spark.
“You like the house,” Otto murmured, pulling the ponytail out of my hair. It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway, trying to keep my wits about me.
“I love the house.”
“You look incredible in the house,” he said, smiling as he leaned down toward me. “Like you fit.”
“It’s probably the dress,” I muttered desperately, my body swaying toward his even as I gripped tightly to my control with what felt like the very tips of my fingers. “Old fashioned girl, old fashioned house.”
Otto chuckled and leaned closer, brushing his lips lightly against mine, his hands tangling in my hair.
“Our food is probably cold,” I mumbled against his lips. “I mean, mine’s already cold but yours is going to get cold.”
He let out a sound between a snort and a scoff and leaned back. “Three more days.”
“Yes.”
“Just—” He shook his head once and then pulled the ends of my hair forward until they hung down in front of me.
I yelped as he cupped my breasts in his hands, my heart racing.
“Fuck,” he muttered, dropping his arms. “Let’s go.”
“Are you mad?” I asked, hurrying behind him as he tugged me out of the bedroom and back down the stairs. I slid a little on the top stair and he stopped abruptly, turning to face me.
“Not mad, baby,” he said, reaching up to run a finger along my jaw. “Impatient as hell. Careful on the stairs, yeah?”
He moved slower then, like a snail, honestly, as we made our way down the rest of the stairs and into the kitchen.
“You need some thicker socks,” he announced, unpacking our lunches.
“What?” I stared at him in confusion.
“Those tights,” he replied, gesturing toward my feet. “No cushion.”
“Shoes have cushion,” I pointed out.
“You buy some socks yesterday?”
I shook my head. Were we really discussing socks?
“I’m gettin’ you some socks.”
“You’re really thinking about socks right now?” I asked as we sat down at the dining room table.
“I’m thinkin’ about socks,” he confirmed, opening up his lunch. “If I wasn’t thinkin’ about socks, I’d be thinkin’ about stripping you out of that dress and layin’ you out on this table.” He took a big bite of his hamburger.
I stared at him open-mouthed.
He nodded. “So, socks,” he muttered around the food in his mouth.
We spent the next hour deliberately not talking about anything sexual, much to my relief. He described what it was like growing up in his family and in the shadow of the club he belonged to—the Aces and Eights Motorcycle Club. I explained further about what would’ve happened if my dad had chosen my husband and what my life would’ve looked like. We debated whether Noel or Rumi were more annoying and he told me about going to my family’s garden center and seeing Ephraim and Caitlyn.
“She seemed nice,” Otto said, leaning back in his chair. “Real concerned about Ephraim’s opinion, though.”
I nodded. That wasn’t anything unusual. “Don’t most wives care what their husbands think?” I asked easily.
Otto laughed. “My mom couldn’t give a rat’s ass what my dad thinks.”
“That’s not true,” I argued.
“Okay, not completely,” he conceded. “She wouldn’t cause major problems on purpose, but she sure as hell says what she wants when she wants.”
“Your dad can’t be happy about that.”
“Hell, I think that’s what he likes about her,” Otto mused.
“My parents were the opposite,” I replied, putting my feet up on the chair next to me. “My mom would never say something that she thought would bother my dad.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. His word is law.” I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “She wouldn’t go against him.”
“My mom would,” Otto murmured, watching me closely. “She thought he was doin’ some shit that she didn’t agree with—she’d never let it fly.”