Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
And maybe I am a fool.
Maybe this will end up being another lesson in disappointment, but I don’t think so. This feels too right, too meant to be. Like Fate itself arranged for us to be in Parker’s house at the same time, both of us naked, a little lost, and horny enough that banging between the lettuce rows seemed like a good idea.
As I drift off, I have a passing thought that there should be lettuce in her wedding bouquet.
And maybe a zucchini…
Sixteen
CHARLOTTE
Orange, autumn-tinged morning light creeps in through the curtains, carrying a cool breeze through the open window.
Fall is here. I can smell it.
It’s time to grab pumpkins for the front porch and candy for the neighborhood kids. Time to decide if I’m going to make a serious costume effort or fall back on my trusty witch’s hat paired with my black dress covered in silver charms, the one that’s always reminded me of Stevie Nicks.
The thought sends memories from last night rushing through my head, making me acutely aware of the warm, muscled body wrapped around mine.
Nix…
My cheeks heat, and a satisfied hum pulses in my veins.
We were naughty last night.
Very naughty.
A part of me wants to go back to being naughty…or back to sleep, whichever comes first. It wants to stay in this delicious moment, feeling cozy, relaxed, and safe in his strong arms.
But now that I’m awake, the rest of my brain is insisting we get down to business. It wants to think about everything that happened last night. About the bar and after the bar. About my crumbling resolve, my rash decisions, and all the things I said.
God, the things I said…
The lines I crossed.
The promises I broke.
Promises to myself, ones the logical parts of me agreed were for the best, at least until after the stress of my ex’s wedding was behind me. But last night I took my vow to hold Nix at a distance, crumpled it up, had kinky sex on it, and threw it in the trash.
I wince as I replay all the things I confessed in the Ranger Rover before I dragged Nix up to my bed. I didn’t hold back, that’s for sure. Not even a little bit. Holding back seemed silly at the time—pointless even—but now…
Well, now, the sun is up and demanding I think this through with a clear head.
But my head isn’t going to clear while I’m tangled up with Nix, still high from last night’s cornucopia of orgasms and pheromones.
Nope. It’s time for some alone time.
And coffee.
Very hot, very dark coffee.
Moving slowly, I slip out from under his arm, then out of bed, easing off the mattress with a held breath. As I pad over to my bureau to grab a pair of yoga pants to pull on with the T-shirt I wore to bed, I glance over my shoulder, but Nix hasn’t stirred. He’s still out cold, sleeping the still, boneless sleep of the very young or the very tired.
But then he did engage in a lot of physical activity last night. The man played an entire game of grueling pro hockey before the sex Olympics even got started.
He’s definitely going to need strong coffee this morning, too.
I decide I’ll bring him one, as soon as I decide if what I did last night was crazy.
Downstairs, I start the kettle and load fresh grounds into the French press. When it’s steeped the perfect seven and a half minutes, I pour a mug. I cradle it between my palms, letting the heat seep into my skin as I wander out into the backyard, leaving the French doors open behind me.
The mosquitoes are brutal in Louisiana, even in mid-October, but the fall chill this morning has them lying low, a mercy I appreciate as I wander barefoot through the grass.
It’s cool and damp under my bare feet, reminding me of mornings just like this as a girl, following my mother out to pick flowers for the flower arrangement we’d work on after breakfast. I’ll always treasure those memories, but as an adult, I craved more than beauty in my garden. I’m the kind of person who enjoys a harvest to put on the table.
In the summer, I have tomatoes, basil, cucumbers, lettuce, and herbs running wild around the periphery of the beds. By this time of the year, all of those except the hardier varieties of lettuce are gone, replaced by root vegetables I’ll be harvesting into November if the weather holds.
I pause by the edge of the tilled earth, amazed as usual, at how quickly the weeds invade. Turn your back for a day or two, and suddenly three-inch spikes of bright green are poking up between the kale and carrot tops. But at least the carrots and cauliflower remain unmolested by critters this year. I finally followed my aunt Jasmine’s advice and planted a “trap crop” of mustard greens.