Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
My jaw clenches.
Do not look down, you asshole. Do not.
I do.
I wish like hell I’d had time to change after running. I turn around and shift my shorts, taking my sweet time plating up her portion, hoping to everything holy she doesn’t notice my hard-on.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Her ass must be enchanted. I feel bewitched.
An ugly side effect must be having the cheesiest pickup lines ever lodged in my brain. I’d rather eat a bowl of nails than say this shit out loud, much less keep thinking it.
She drops into the nearest seat at the large marble island and looks at me again. “I wasn’t expecting you to cook. Not in a million years.”
“Didn’t think you were. I’m a free agent. Not a damn robot programmed to carry out orders. I wanted to start this day right for both of us, so I went to work.”
This is an apology.
Hopefully, she accepts.
“I, um… right. I appreciate it.” She sounds like she’s fighting every word. “And I guess I’m sorry, too. For going off on you last night. I’m still a little sensitive with everything here and it’s not okay.”
My turn to be surprised.
“Thanks. We were both processing, I’m sure. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard to figure it all out while you were digesting the news.”
“No. But I get why you did. I’m still kinda reeling.”
“It was a lot to take in. The old man loved his surprises.” I continue plating up. “Also, I like having a plan.”
“If you didn’t, I’d wonder if you were really Holden Verity.” She smiles. I can practically feel her staring at my back. “It must kill you not knowing what we’re going to do, huh? With Gramps, there was always a road map.”
We.
The word makes me uncomfortable, even if it’s true.
Until that damn jeweled egg vanishes, we’re stuck together.
One unit. One mission.
In this to the brink of insanity.
“You’d be surprised. He could change his mind on a whim and zero notice.” Sighing, I push her plate in front of her. “Here’s my peace offering. Enjoy.”
“Accepted.” She digs her fork into the fluffy eggs with a soft noise of contentment. “Mmm, these look tasty!”
“Don’t hold back on my account,” I grunt, grabbing my plate and swinging around the island into the seat next to her.
“No, I mean it. Apology accepted. This is a lot better than words.” Her eyes flutter shut as she bites into her toast.
I’ll ignore the obscene moan and take that as her own little olive branch.
We’re not becoming friends.
Shit, friends is too much to ask when we can barely tolerate each other. That chemical outburst yesterday proved it.
I let my anger win, and it’s fair to say she’s working through plenty of crap, too.
Still, we can cope.
We can be professional and try to manage the shit hand we’ve been dealt.
If we’re lucky, we can both come out ahead.
And it seems like she’s cleared half her plate before I’ve had three bites.
Her eyes do that fluttery thing again with every mouthful, and she’s not moving like the walking dead anymore.
All I see—all I try like hell to avoid looking at—is a bright-eyed young woman who tries to chase my mind into the gutter for the next ten minutes.
I’d say this breakfast was a mistake, if only she didn’t enjoy it so much. It’s not her fault I can’t get my mind back on a purer wavelength, either.
Again, what the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I stuff my mouth with my eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, the works. Satisfying, but it’s not the medicine I need.
Five-star food doesn’t satisfy the raging, ridiculous hard-on pulling at my shorts.
The second I’m done eating, I need an excuse to throw myself under an ice-cold shower.
“I don’t remember you cooking much when Gramps was around,” she says after she’s slayed her inner hangry.
“Hardly got a chance. He’d insist on taking the helm when the chef wasn’t around. I still dream about his lobster bakes on the beach.”
“Oh yeah! Haven’t had any seafood that good in years. Nothing in Boston comes close. If you added some shredded lobster to these, I think I’d die happy.” She shrugs, smiling and piling more eggs on her toast.
Noted.
The girl’s got curves, but she’s lean enough. Looks like she’d be no stranger to the runway with that aristocratic Blackthorn bone structure that seems to run in the family and legs for days.
I’m stunned to see how much she puts away. I thought I’d piled her plate too high.
“I’ll make you a sunrise person yet,” I say.
“If every day starts off like this… maybe.” She grins and her eyes shift from purple to a clear, shattering blue. “Let me guess. You’re still a big gym freak, too? I remember when we’d catch you doing push-ups sometimes.”
She would remember that.
The one time I let her and Margot stand on my back, they nearly cracked my spine dancing until I threw them off.