Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I tried not to gulp, my hand swatting his chest, while heat curled through me. “Seven, and you don’t miss an inch of me?”
“Bet.” He clasped me tighter.
Instead of focusing on the way his hands caressed me like a song, my gaze drifted past him, toward the elegant entranceway with stone steps and iron lanterns. The DuValls would be inside. Waiting. Judging.
“Maddy?” Washington cupped my cheeks. “Where’d you go? Don’t give me a complex. If my terms aren’t good enough, lemme know what else you need. I’m a generous lover. You know that.”
I swallowed. “It’s not that, Wash … I’m not ready to- to do this.” I tried to get the ache off my chest with a humorless chuckle. “Not sure I’m up to scrutinizing your every move while Judge Plantation holds your hand, his token support Black person.”
Washington fixed me with a serious stare. “Maddy, I’d say we can show ourselves to our suite right now, no chatting, but something’s on your mind. What?”
After an irritated breath, I muttered Bridget’s hurtful actions and downplayed my scars. “I’m okay. She didn’t know I was nearby. So, five minutes it is?”
He went still. The man who teased me a moment ago about an endless faucet of wine turned into stone and thunder.
His next response was a smile that made me shiver for too many reasons, the top two being fear and desire. And I knew what was next, as sure as he took my hand and strolled to the gardens where the DuValls hosted their event.
My man moved with determination and purpose toward the garden that sat behind the winery. The place looked as if a fairy godmother with a wine addiction curated it. Wisteria draped white pergolas, tangled with fairy lights, but I couldn’t appreciate it.
“I’ll leave you to … it.” I wriggled my hand free.
We hadn’t even cleared the string of lights we passed beneath before he stole my hand again.
I reached for the silver tray a server walked around with, but again my man tugged me along, turning this charming château into his own personal we-doing-this scenario.
Bridget stood next to her husband as they both sipped rosé.
The moment she spotted us, Bridget’s smile snapped into place. It was just as fake and tight as the one Washington sported. But she’d lived in a pretentious world for so long, she didn’t smell the plastic on him.
As he let my hand go, she opened her arms, prepared for a ghost kiss, but Washington’s arm was moving even faster than hers. A rocket of knuckles landed straight in her husband’s face.
“Washington!” I gasped. I thought he’d give Bridget a stern talking-to. Instead, Gaston DuVall lay in the grass, not even twitching a muscle.
My man gave us all a slow smile, all teeth and zero forgiveness.
Now, I sputtered for words, and I hadn’t even gotten tipsy yet. “You-you—”
“I know what you think, Maddy. That was a five, bébé.”
The strike resembled a seven, but Gaston DuVall was built different.
washington
. . .
“Pumpkin!” Bridget ran past me before I even pulled my arm back from punching her husband in the face.
A slow ripple of whispers started as Madison stared at me and stuttered.
“I know what you think, Maddy. That was a five, bébé.”
Her eyes said it looked more like a ten.
“He’s about to wake up.” I held up a hand and lowered each finger for a countdown.
As Gaston jolted awake, he nearly pulled his wife down to yank himself up into a standing position. He took a wobbly step, hands pressing onto a linen table. The wineglass tower crashed around him. Not my problem.
“Call the cops!” Bridget snarled, helping her husband stand.
“Not. Yet.” I gritted out the words. Man, I’d snapped. Not violently. Okay, a touch violent. Two of my knuckles approached Judge Gaston’s face before his knees buckled. So, not technically violent if he crumpled at the slightest contact.
I grabbed a wineglass from the edge of the linen tablecloth that had been at the base and hadn’t fallen, and a silver fork. Tapped it like a gavel. The guests who hadn’t witnessed the altercation turned. Birds turned. Hell, the winery vines turned too.
I stepped forward, squaring my shoulders. In corporate law, I’d stated my case in many places: Conference rooms colder than Madison’s heart a year ago. Twice at Ruth’s Chris. At a tailgate for a Saints owner. The Twerking Turtles Lounge, where the dancers had better business instincts than that particular client.
But this was the first time I’d argued in a peaceful garden. “Ya’ll are the judge’s witnesses. Yep, I punched him. I own that. He’ll probably sue me. Get three-hundred grand. My last penny.”
“You’re damn right,” Gaston replied, snatching a chilled champagne bottle from a server who gawked and blinked the entire time. As he placed it over his swelling skin, I rolled my eyes.