Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Holds her hands or restrains them?
Daisy makes a sound, and I glance her way, noting her frown. I’m not alone in my feelings, then. Even the seven-year-old can see this is awkward. Actually, what it is is fucking inappropriate.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, plucking at a piece of nothing from my husband’s sweater.
I clear my throat and quirk a brow so hard it hurts. I think I might’ve strained it.
“Sorry,” she says, her gaze barely grazing me. “Hey, Daisy. So nice of you to take the new nanny to brunch.”
Raif opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. Honestly, his responses—his reaction—are not quick enough to satisfy me.
“Try new wife,” I utter, sounding as pissed off as I feel.
“What?” Cue an awkward double take. And eyes on stalks. “You got married?” she accuses, as her head swings back his way. “Already?”
“Yes.” Raif’s mouth twitches. “This is Lavender, my wife. Sweetheart, this is Celine.”
“The expensive one,” Daisy whisper-hisses.
“Thank you, Daisy. I think I can see that.” I lean a little closer across the table. “Please don’t take a leaf out of my book, okay?” The little girl nods, though she doesn’t know why. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you,” I say, turning to the vision in pink, “but as rule, I try not to tell lies.”
“Lying is wrong,” Daisy says approvingly. “Except telling white lies so you don’t hurt anyone’s feelings.” Her blue eyes slide sideways. “Hello, Celine. It’s nice to see you.”
I try not to laugh. This girl cracks me up. But back to the matter at hand.
“I’d appreciate it if you would stop pawing my husband. Unless you want to end up in that window of cakes over there.” In case she’s a little slow on the uptake, I point my fork in that direction. Polly would not be impressed with my table manners, though I think she’d approve of the sentiment.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard,” I murmur, using it then to stick a little more egg into my mouth.
She is gorgeous—the kind of gorgeous I will never be. Not without surgery. A nip here, a tuck there, and lots of implants. A Brazilian butt-lift and breast augmentation at the very least. I’d probably also need my legs broken, then drilled with holes and fitted with metal pins. Even then, I’m not sure I’d get all those inches.
But I’m not her, and this is not a competition. Or if it is, I’ve already won, no matter how insecure I allow myself to feel. After all, Raif married me. He not only married me but he also asked me to stay. For real.
“I guess I pipped you at the post.” Because something tells me this is probably his ex-fiancée. Wow. Well done, Raif.
“She seems delightful.”
I don’t think she means that, do you, Raify?”
“I think you’re right, princess.” He smiles apologetically my way. “But then, Celine wasn’t the most intuitive woman I’ve ever met.”
“Who would that be, then?”
“You.”
“Maybe you should spell it out for her.”
“My wife is very jealous,” he says, as though imparting a secret.
“And it really could be a shame to spoil that dress.”
“Really?” she demands. “You’re going to let her speak to me like that?”
Raif barks out a laugh, and I swear I hear someone behind me mutter, “Bitch, please!”
“Off you toddle.” I make a walking motion with my fingers. “I think there’s a box somewhere waiting for you.”
“What? What is she talking about.”
“A suitcase, you mean?” Raif’s mouth twitches. He seems to be having fun.
“No. I was thinking she looks more like a Barbie doll.” Slutty Barbie.
“Well, really!” With a huff, she storms off, her heels clip-clopping across the tile.
Raif resumes his seat, ignoring prying eyes and smothered snickers. “How are your eggs?”
Like swallowing cement. “Fine,” I say instead. “I suddenly think I never want to see the color pink again.”
“It is a bit much,” he says, purposely misunderstanding me.
“Celine’s golden handshake must’ve been a good one.” I aim for blithe. What comes out of my mouth is shrew.
“There was no golden handshake.” His gaze flicks tellingly to Daisy.
“How are your pancakes, Daiz?”
“Yummy. But why would Uncle Raif paint his hand gold?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“I gave Celine nothing. We parted on unhappy terms.”
“She was certainly happy to see you.”
“The feeling wasn’t mutual.”
I feel like I can hear the ears round us straining, but I just can’t seem to help myself.
“Well, don’t expect me to go all Daphne du Maurier.”
Raif puts down his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “You’re gonna have to explain that one to me.”
“I’m not doing a Rebecca.”
“Who’s Rebecca?” Daisy asks. “Is she expensive, too?”
“She’s not real,” I say. “Just a character from a book. One I have no intention of emulating.” Brave words from a woman who feels like Velma next to Raif’s version of Daphne.
“I should hope not.” Raif reaches for my hand. “You’re the first Mrs. Deveraux—the only Mrs. Deveraux.”