Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I head into the cozy nook by the bay window overlooking the manicured lawns in the kitchen, where we usually have a quiet breakfast. The air is scented with fresh coffee and warm croissants, and the granite island is scattered with fresh fruits and cereals, but Freya’s not in the kitchen. I hear laughter spilling out, bright and carefree from the conservatory. It's Freya's giggle, high and infectious, but then it mixes with a deeper rumble that sends a shiver down my spine—Blake. It stops me in my tracks. Memories of his mouth on me last night flash hot and unbidden, making my cheeks flush as I pause in the doorway.
I start to back out, but Freya has noticed me through the glass doors. She runs towards me, her curls bouncing, her face lighting up.
"Carolyn! Come join us!" she calls, grabbing my hand with her fingers, sticky from whatever jam she's smeared on her toast.
I want to bolt back to my room, hide under the covers and pretend last night didn't happen, that his touch didn't set me on fire, but I don't want to cower. I don’t want to show how rattled I am, so I straighten my robe, tie the sash a little tighter, and go in. I go to meet Blake with what I hope is a composed smile.
He's dressed casually since it's a Saturday. No suit today. Instead, he’s in a fitted navy polo that hugs his broad shoulders and chest, paired with dark jeans that sit low on his hips. His dark hair is damp as if he's just got out of the shower. He smiles at me as I enter, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that makes my stomach flip. Dear heaven, my heart nearly stops. Heat rushes through me as our eyes lock, and memories of his face between my thighs come flooding back, making my fists clench involuntarily.
Freya bounces back into her seat, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. "Sit with us, Carolyn! We're having breakfast here 'cause the sun's so pretty!"
The sight of them together—father and daughter in this sun-dappled space—twists something in my chest.
I tell myself I’ve nothing to be afraid of. This is just breakfast, just a little family gathering, not a confrontation. Quietly, I slide into the chair across from Blake. The robe slips open slightly at the thigh before I tug it closed, my skin prickling under his intense scrutiny.
I eat slowly, picking at a croissant, tearing at its flaky layers, and absently dipping the pieces into a dollop of strawberry jam while I listen to Freya chatter excitedly about plans to build a pond where she intends to grow a whole family of tadpoles into frogs. She's got it all mapped out—planting reeds and lilies that she plans to get from the nursery in town, stringing fairy lights along the paths. Her words tumble out between bites of muffin.
“What do you think, Carolyn?” she asks.
I lean in and suggest we add some plants that will bring in insects, and they will be the food for the frogs. She nods vigorously in agreement, and I am impressed by how steady my voice is even as I feel Blake's eyes on me, tracing my face, my exposed collarbone where the lace dips low. It makes my pulse race, and heat bloom under my skin. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs under the table.
Freya claps her hands, thrilled. "We can start today! Let’s start today. Can we go today after I come back from school?"
She laughs suddenly, covering her mouth. "Wait, it's Saturday! No school today. We can get started now!" She turns to Blake, her eyes wide and pleading. "Dad, do you have work?"
He looks at me first, his gaze lingering, that smile tugging at his lips again, and says, "I have a meeting, but I'll be back soon. I'll join you then."
Freya squeals happily, bouncing in her chair as she plans aloud. “Who will dig the pond? Shall we ask Josh?”
“Whose Josh?”
“The gardener.”
“Oh, right. Of course.”
Blake tenses slightly, but I'm too tired to really notice or focus on him. My mind is still foggy from lack of sleep, the events of last night replaying in loops that leave me dazed. Perhaps I need to sleep more to clear my head, shake off this haze, but more than that, I do need to talk to someone, vent about the confusion swirling inside me. The desire, the guilt, the fear of blurring lines too far.
Definitely not the real Carolyn. She'll flip if she ever finds out about last night. Even so, it’s not really my fault. If anything, it’s hers. She promised me that Blake has absolutely no interest at all in sex with her, but the truth is, he is like a dog in heat. I’ll call Emma, with her no-nonsense advice and grounding presence. I have to be careful, though. The walls have ears in this place. Every whisper could potentially be overheard by staff. The last thing I need is to derail all Carolyn’s careful plans by having loose lips. I’ll leave the house, get out where I can speak freely without paranoia creeping in.