Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Instinct has me turning my face, not away from her but instead to intercept her lips. She gasps as our mouths touch gently. Her fingers curl into my shoulder and I angle my head, pressing the advantage to kiss her like I wanted to last night.
The sweet scent of her perfume fills my senses and the softness of her lips is intoxicating. As our lips touch, I taste the sweetness of her lip gloss, a hint of strawberry. But more than that, I taste the rush of adrenaline and anticipation that comes with kissing a woman like Marcie DeLeon.
The only sound is our shared breath and the breeze kicks up a soft rustle of leaves but as my tongue slides into her mouth, the only thing I can hear is the thundering of my own heart. Time seems to stand still, but then Marcie moans and it breaks the sweetness of the moment because my entire body reacts to that symphony of desire. I regretfully pull back before I toss her over my shoulder and haul her into her bedroom.
Her dark lashes lay against her skin and I wait for her lids to flutter open, those blue eyes hazy with dreams unfulfilled. She smiles and murmurs, “That was some kiss.”
“Yes, it was,” I agree as I take a step back. But I don’t want her to think I’m not interested in more, so I ask, “What are you doing for dinner? Can I take you somewhere?”
Marcie tosses her head toward the door. “I put a pork loin in the Crock-Pot this morning. Feel like eating a home-cooked meal instead?”
“Only a fool would say no,” I reply.
Laughing, Marcie digs her keys out of her purse to unlock the door and I follow her inside. Over the next twenty minutes, Marcie serves me a beer and pours a glass of red wine for herself from a bottle that sits already uncorked on her counter. She refuses my help, so I watch as she efficiently moves around her kitchen, pan-searing green beans and slicing sourdough bread that looks homemade.
I marvel at the woman who is dressed like a fashion icon rather than a conservative educator. She’s got on black skinny jeans that come just above her ankles and up until the time she walked through the door, black high heels. She kicked those off and ditched the tan-colored blazer she had on over a white blouse with little black bows over each button. She then rolled up her sleeves and set to preparing dinner.
“How was your day?” I ask, because that first night we ate dinner together at the bar, I learned that her career is high stress and usually filled with managing crises.
“No calls to child protective services,” she says acidly. “But I did confiscate a knife that a fifth grader snuck onto campus. He swears he forgot it was in his backpack but word on KGV said he intended to scare another kid with it.”
“KGV? Sounds like Russian intelligence.”
“Kid grapevine,” she corrects, shooting me a wink over her shoulder before grabbing her glass of wine for a sip. She turns and leans against the counter, studying me. “What about you? You look tired.”
“Hmmm… let’s see. I had two grooms quit this morning without notice, a parent threaten to sue the farm because her kid doesn’t get to ride the horse she wants, our hay delivery was late and we had to buy some off a neighboring farm at three times the normal price, one mare delivered a foal breech and that was very touch and go for a while—”
“Is the baby okay?” Marcie blurts out.
“Fine,” I reply with a chuckle, loving her concern. “Our veterinarian was able to reposition and do an episiotomy. Both mom and baby are fine.”
“Thank God,” she says, tipping her wineglass again.
“That was just representative of the morning.”
“Oh,” she says quietly. “Assuming the rest of the day was more of the same?”
“Worse,” I say, propping one of my socked feet on my knee. I left my boots by the door. “I had to meet with Gabe about Alaine’s trust and the winery.”
“Okay, that story needs food and another round of drinks.”
“Agreed,” I say, rising from the chair and taking her glass. “I’ll do drinks, you plate food.”
Once we’re at her small kitchen table, I hold my beer bottle out and she taps her wineglass against it. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”
“Thank you for fixing my shutter. And for a great first kiss.”
“More where that came from,” I promise and she blushes. I’ll never get sick of seeing that.
We dig into the food, which is divine, and I tell her about the unpleasant hour I spent with Gabe Mardraggon. I wasn’t in the best of moods because we had planned to meet at my office at the farm since I like sticking close when we know a mare is in labor. But he insisted I come to his office almost thirty minutes away because he had far too many boxes of paperwork to transport easily and he was lined up with back-to-back meetings after.