Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“No, no, no,” I mumble, rolling over, trying desperately to find a cool spot on my pillow.
“Yes, yes, yes,” a sweet, feminine voice sings back.
I still and scowl. Pout. Roll my eyes. I’m never going to live this down. Only twice in my life have I been drunk beyond drunk. It’s not me. I’m vulnerable under the influence. At risk. But the truth is, if I hadn’t drunk last night, I would have headed straight to the hangar, got on my plane back to Miami, and . . .
And blown the whole fucking city up.
It was a terrible idea. Worse than getting so drunk I feel like a few grenades have gone off in my skull.
My face squished in the pillow, I listen as the sound of her bare feet padding the floor gets closer. Her face appears, looking all too fucking smug. “You’re dribbling,” she whispers, leaning in and licking my lips. Naturally, everything inside lights up like fireworks and my blood starts pounding instead of my head. She smells so good. Tastes incredible. Feels like heaven. I find it in myself to push my hands into the covers and roll to my back, grabbing her wrist as I do and yanking her on top of me. But just as I’m moving in for a kiss to get us started, to get what I know is going to be a challenging day off to the best start, I detect a wave of worry fly across her face.
I withdraw. “What’s up?”
Her cheeks balloon, her hand slaps across her mouth, and she flies up from the bed, dashing across the bedroom. She doesn’t bother shutting the door—time is obviously of the essence—and a second later, the retching starts. I pout. “You okay, baby?” I call, dragging myself up, my hangover back with a vengeance. Self-inflicted, mind, so I’ll keep my gob shut. I make it to the door just as she brings up last night’s dinner, her body jacking, her arms braced on the seat.
“Fine,” she heaves, jolting again, bringing up dessert.
I wince, crouching behind her and rubbing her back, tucking some stray strands of hair into her hair tie. “It’s definitely a girl,” I say, pulling some tissue from the holder and passing it to her.
She inhales heavily and exhales even more so, dropping to her arse and slumping back into me, exhausted. I shuffle back until I find a wall, taking Rose with me, and settle against it, holding her between my legs, my arms wrapped around her chest. “How do you know?”
“Because only a woman could be this difficult.” I lean in and have a nibble of her ear as she chuckles weakly, snuggling into me anywhere she can. This is my Rose. Peaceful. “Feel any better?”
“Not really,” she whispers. “You?”
“Not really,” I admit, sighing into her hair. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know what happens from here. Returning to Miami was always on the cards, but we both—and by both, I mean James and I—felt a fuck load better about it with The Bear dead. Trying to sort business while ensuring Rose and Beau were safe was too fucking stressful. I don’t want to return to that. Dodging bombs, looking over my shoulder, arguing constantly with my wife.
Problem is, I don’t appear to have a choice in the matter, and Rose doesn’t react all too well when choices are taken away from us.
“What happens now?” she asks, and it’s hesitant.
Now, we go back to Miami and fix the fucking problem. Simple. But simple isn’t going to be easy, not on my health, and definitely not on my marriage. “Now,” I say, moving my hands to her belly, “you will do what you’re told and concentrate on this.”
Her hands land on mine, circling. “While you go back to war,” she whispers, the statement almost accepting. But what choice does she have? What choice do any of us have? His contact last night wasn’t just a courtesy call to let us know we’d failed to eliminate our biggest enemy. It was a warning.
And the mystery is reignited.
“Come on,” I say, encouraging her up. I sling an arm around her and walk us to the kitchen, placing her on a chair and collecting some of that green shit from the fridge she’s drinking a lot of lately. James got her onto it, and now I’m pretty sure she must be pissing the stuff. I pour some into a glass and pass it to her, setting the jug down and glancing around, listening. Something’s different. “Where’s the kid?”
“He stayed at your mother’s.” She takes a sip, her eyebrows high. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking I would hate for Daniel to see me drunk. She would be right.
“What are you doing today?” I ask.
“While you plot death?”