Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 50828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
I mean that.
She pulls back nearly an hour later, looking spent but more at peace.
I brush her hair from her thoroughly red face. “There’s my pretty girl.”
“Oh, gorgeous—but only if you like a runny nose and a splotchy face.”
“You’re in luck. And on you, they’re perfect.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“I’m not.” I kiss her softly. “Let me help you enjoy the rest of the day.”
“It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death. I don’t think it’s possible.”
“It’s not if you don’t try.” I squeeze her tight. “Let’s start by turning this off.”
She lurches for the remote as Alan Rickman begins falling from Nakatomi Tower, but I’m quicker.
As the TV screen goes black, she whirls on me. “You don’t like Die Hard?”
“I love it, but not right now. We have other things to do.”
“If you’re thinking more sex, count me out. My girl parts are sore.”
It’s impossible not to grin. “I’ll keep that in mind. Come with me.”
With a tug on her hand, I haul her off the sofa and lead her to the kitchen. It takes some coaxing and some spectacular failures with cookie dough on my part, but she shakes off her malaise, and we bake sugar Christmas trees together. She teaches me to frost and decorate—something my ex-wife would never have been caught dead doing. When we’re done and everything is put away, I make Isabella a stir-fry with her favorite vegetables, sit her on my lap as we eat, and find the schmaltziest holiday romance movie I can find.
She sometimes groans and sometimes laughs. What she’s not doing? Crying or mourning. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a win.
“That would not happen.” She scoffs at the TV screen.
I can’t disagree. “The big-city billionaire marrying the small-town baker without a prenup, and especially without fucking her first, is totally far-fetched. And the acting was horrible, too.”
She bites her lip. “True. But I didn’t hate it.”
“Then I didn’t, either.”
Isabella frowns. “Why are you being so nice? I don’t get it. You sought me out for revenge. You married me as a middle finger to my dad. You even want me to have your payback baby. You didn’t sign on for my emotional crap.”
“You have this fallacy that me wanting revenge automatically means I’m a villain who won’t care about you or how you feel. Why does it have to be one or the other? Why can’t I find ways to get revenge and still adore my new wife?”
She scowls. “I guess…I never thought of it that way.”
“Try. They’re both true. My feelings toward your father don’t mean I want to do anything but shower you with the best and give you a good life.”
“I don’t know whether you’re brilliant or insane.”
“Think about it and let me know what you decide, okay?” I tap her nose with my finger.
“I guess I should have asked what’s up for Christmas before I threw myself a pity party.”
“I should have told you my thoughts so we could work it out together. If it’s okay, I hoped we could go to Steve and Laurel’s tomorrow around noon. We’ll have dinner and dessert, watch some football, maybe play a few board games, then come home.”
Isabella takes a minute to think that over, then nods. “That sounds nice. If you’re sure they won’t mind me crashing…”
“You’re not crashing; you’re family.”
She bites her lip, and I know that face. She wants to believe me but doesn’t. “How can I help? I don’t want Laurel to do all the cooking by herself.”
“My niece will help, too, but why don’t you call? I’ll bet Laurel has everything under control, but she’d appreciate hearing from you.”
“Okay.”
When my wife starts to leave my lap, I pull her back. “Where are you going?”
She scowls as if it’s obvious. “To call Laurel.”
“In a minute. I know it’s not Christmas morning, but I’d like to give you two things now.”
“Nathan, you’ve already given me so much.”
“Cock doesn’t count. Wait. Forget I said that. I’ll insist later that you need cock for Christmas.” I wink.
“Of course you will, but I’m not forgetting.”
I can’t resist laughing. “Brat. Close your eyes.”
Isabella sighs impatiently, but complies. I reach into my pocket and pull out the small beige box, lift the pendant from the case, then sidle next to her. “Sit up.”
Again, she does as I ask. She looks beautiful with her messy bun twisted on her head and tendrils falling loose to frame her face. The lights from the Christmas tree and the fireplace beam off her hair, which shines in a seemingly endless array of blond shades.
I slide the pendant around her neck and tighten the clasp. “There.”
She opens her eyes and touches the cool gold pressing against her chest, feeling its shape with her fingertips. Then she whips her shocked gaze to me before hopping to her feet and dashing to the mirror in the foyer. I follow, reveling in her stunned gasp.