Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 212458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1062(@200wpm)___ 850(@250wpm)___ 708(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 212458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1062(@200wpm)___ 850(@250wpm)___ 708(@300wpm)
I hit send and the message seems to go through, so I breathe out relief. But I do it too soon because a red exclamation mark pops up with a not delivered error.
He’s back. And he’s got a look in his eyes that has my heart beating in double-time.
“Why are my bags over there?” I pretend not to notice that look in his eyes, and point to the bench by the door before I hit re-try on the message.
Instead of answering me, he’s eating up the distance between us with an expression that says… uh oh, that look is carnal.
I back away. He quickens his pace and I find myself pinned against the counter. His hands cup my jaw.
“Not nice trying to use my mother as a weapon, there, wildberry.”
My heart trips over itself, but I manage to keep my voice steady.
“Not nice to kidnap me and keep me here against my will, there, Shifty. I need to go.”
He smiles. But the smile warns of danger.
“Seriously,” I snap.
His expression clears. “Let’s eat. She brought over some salad, twice baked potatoes, and chicken cutlets. Also a baked manicotti for tomorrow. My ma can cook. You cook?”
“Not even a little,” I lie.
“Hm.” He doesn’t look too disappointed.
“I’m not very domestic at all,” I add.
Another lie. I love cleaning. And cooking. And everything domestic.
“That’s all right.” He shrugs. “We’ll pay someone to clean the house. I’ll cook.”
“You a neat freak?” I ask.
“Not really.”
“This place is spotless,” I observe.
“Mom cleaned it last week for me. She was here a few days, so she did that while she was here. Why? You a slob?”
“Ah. A mommy’s boy,” I quip.
His eyes snap to lock with mine and they’re sparking with challenge. Am I getting to him?
“You’re funny, baby,” he says.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, “Not tryin’ to be.”
“Yeah, well keep bein’ that kind of funny and you might find yourself with a pink ass.”
My jaw drops. “Are you threatening to hit me?”
He leans forward. “Hitting you isn’t the same as spanking your ass.”
“Sounds like the same thing to me,” I fire back, snottily.
“Yeah, well my kinda spanking’s gonna end with you coming on my knot and whimpering my name in that sweet way you’ve got.”
“Pff,” I roll my eyes acting like I’m unaffected, but my nipples and that bitemark on my throat are all tingly. I’ll have to pretend I don’t like that he likes how I say his name.
He shakes his head like he thinks I’m hilarious, then pulls plates out of the cupboard with one hand and forks from a drawer with the other. He takes them around the breakfast bar to his kitchen table, which has an L-shaped bench. He sets the table, then returns to open the big brushed-steel refrigerator and moves a few of the containers around, hunting for something.
“Another broken promise,” I mutter under my breath.
No oral sex. No crepes.
“Hm?” He peers around the fridge door.
I shake my head and point my gaze at the lake, which looks super-peaceful, unlike what’s happening in my stomach right now. My belly is all flippy and fluttery, a series of tiny torpedoes.
My belly goes from fluttery to rumbly. It was a long drive here and all the exertion has left me hungry since I only grabbed a cup of coffee at that diner in Drowsy Hollow.
“What broken promises?”
“Crepes, for one. You, Stranger Danger, are a crepe tease.”
I look over as his face changes. “You like crepes?”
I love crepes. They’re one of my favorite things to eat. Though I rarely get the chance to eat them. I don’t answer.
“We’ll eat the chicken for dinner then,” he says. He puts the containers back in the fridge, walks to a cupboard, squats, and produces a crepe pan and mixing bowl, then reaches into a drawer and pulls out a wooden crepe spreader, whisk, and a long, skinny spatula.
“You were excited about the food your mother brought,” I say softly.
I’m sort of surprised. I pretty much expected him to sluff that off.
He shrugs. “We can eat that stuff later. If crepes’ll make you happy, that’s more important than my stomach. You’re my priority.”
I spin, turning my back to him, staring out at the lake, trying to will my galloping heart to slow down.
Because a) men say you’re a priority and then their actions usually say different and b) I can’t get caught up in this; it’s not real.
It’s not real. But if it was, it might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
But it’s not fate. It’s fake.
My palms are suddenly sweaty. And my chest is burning.
I love my Auntie Nelle. I miss her so much it hurts. And this isn’t easy to admit, but I might be kind of angry with her right now for doing this to me.
13
Mason
Emotion rolls off of her when I say she’s my priority. It shunts through me, and it feels right to feel this connection. I don’t know all that much about deciphering women’s feelings; I’ve never had this sort of insight before, but if I had to name what her earlier emotions felt like, it wasn’t hostility about a broken promise, more like longing. And that says a lot to me. And I’m pretty certain it’s not saying shit about crepes versus chicken.