Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 31927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
“I love you, too,” she whispers, voice all wrecked and sweet, and fuck, I’m gone. I let go and explode, coming so hard I see white. My cock jerks deep inside her, spilling hot and messy, and her pussy milks every drop out of me.
Fucking hell. My world is absolutely perfect.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ELSIE
For the last week, my life has been a fever dream of hot fireman cuddles, carb-loaded takeout, and absolutely unhinged pets.
I keep waiting for Beckett to wake up one morning and wonder what in the world is happening. But every time I crack an eye open, there he is staring at me like I hung the moon, making me coffee before I even leave the bedroom, and wrestling a potbellied pig out of the recycling bin while Mr. Snugglebutt supervises with the air of a hairy orange crime boss.
Yep, it’s a domestic paradise.
My cat took exactly five hours to go from “I will die to defend my territory” to “This palace is mine.” At first, I thought he’d hold a grudge against Pork and Beans forever, swatting at them from strategic vantage points and plotting their deaths in his sleep. Nope. Turns out my cat is an opportunist. He had one taste of doggie door freedom, and he’s living his best wildcat life with his two new besties.
I’m not even kidding. I caught him last night at two a.m. slinking through the doggie door, tail high, eyes gleaming like he was auditioning for “Predators of the Night.” This morning, he trotted back in with a dead mole in his mouth and promptly presented it to Beckett like some kind of trophy. Luckily, it takes more than a dead critter to upset my hot fireman. He took it all in stride. Before I could freak out, he grabbed a piece of paper towel and took the offering from my cat. Then he disposed of it without any fuss.
Also, Pork and Beans have accepted their feline overlord. The three of them now move in a synchronized triangle through the kitchen, forming an unstoppable food-begging alliance. At night, they curl up on the Deluxe Pet Throne a.k.a. Beans’s massive dog bed, and sleep tangled together in a beastly, snoring heap. It’s weirdly adorable.
My own transition into Beckett’s world has also been seamless, except for the mornings when I have to scrape myself out of his bed and convince my brain to function.
After a week, I’ve already got half his dresser drawers, my coffee mug is permanently stationed by the sink, and there’s a giant box of my favorite cereal in the pantry.
Life doesn’t get any better than this.
The vet clinic has one of those mornings that feels like the universe is taking pity on me. There are exactly zero emergencies. No one’s dog has been hit by a car, ingested half a bottle of aspirin, or decided to eat a sock. The waiting room is empty and still smells faintly of disinfectant from Hanna’s latest “deep cleaning” binge.
Hanna’s behind the front desk, feet up, scrolling endlessly on her phone. If boredom were an Olympic sport, she’d be in first place.
I’m behind the counter with a stack of charts and my old friend—strong, sweet coffee. My plans for today are definitely not ambitious. I’m just hoping to survive.
I check my phone. It’s only ten a.m., and so far, my most interesting case is a dachshund with seasonal allergies.
The door chimes, that familiar ding loud in the quiet, and my brain instantly goes into “client face” mode. I slap on my professional smile, expecting a catastrophe, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find Beckett’s mom striding in the door.
Behind the desk, Hanna sits up straight, her phone dropping onto the counter with a clatter.
“Good morning!” Her voice is rich and cheerful, with just the faintest edge of “I dare you to cross me.” I love her instantly, which is confusing because I’m also two seconds from a nervous meltdown.
I clear my throat and force my brain to remember how to speak. “Hi, Mrs. Hot! It’s so good to see you again.” This is technically true—I met her a few weeks back when she brought Beans in for a checkup and single-handedly charmed my entire staff.
Debra beams, her smile so genuine I almost forget to be afraid. “Please, call me Debra. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. I just had to come by and see you.” She glances at Hanna, who’s smiling in open awe, and then back to me.
Debra’s smile shifts a little. It’s still warm, but now with a glint of mischief. “I’ve been trying to get my oldest to bring you over for Sunday brunch.” She holds up her phone, tapping the screen. “But he’s been ducking my calls and messages.”
All my blood rushes straight to my face. Holy. Freaking. Hell. I just got ambushed by Beckett’s mom. At work. In broad daylight.