Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Which maybe I was, but I was also just plain stupid.
I push those thoughts away and look down at my dress. The square collar allowed me to look pretty, but no cleavage was found, and my arms were covered. King was actually the one that showed me the dress and chose the beautiful green color because he said he liked the way it looked against my skin. If you had asked me if I couldn’t have imagined King shopping for clothes, I would have laughed you out of the store. The dress cinched under my breasts, but not so close I was uncomfortable—or drew attention to them. Then, it flares out in true babydoll fashion, falling to just above my knee. It’s pretty and the matching shoes I found—apparently, King draws the line at shoe shopping—are comfortable, but pretty. I left my hair down but scrunched it up, so the natural curls were on display. I topped it all off with very light makeup.
I felt pretty, and I the last time I felt like that was probably before Dom and I had sex. This is a soul-shattering discovery I file away for a later time. Only because King tilts my world off its axis, and he honestly has no idea he did it.
He puts his hand on my lower back and guides me as we follow the hostess to our private high-backed booth. I sit down, moving to slide over. He stops me by bending down and kissing my forehead. Then, he sits opposite of me. Opposite of me.
Okay, I know it’s weird. Most girls would probably like the guy with them to want to be close. Dad always did with Mom. Dom did, on the few occasions he’d take me out-of-town to go out—he didn’t want his brothers from the club, his parents, his sister, or T to see us together. Yes, I know this was a red flag. I ignored it then, because again, I thought he was working through hurting T. Then I hurt T and made it worse by lying to Dom by pretending I was dealing with T so he wouldn’t have to.
Yep. I’m just plain stupid.
I push the thoughts away again and continue to dissect what I’m feeling. I look at mine and King’s joined hands. His strong fingers intertwined with mine and holding on as he sits there talking about … Oh crap. What’s he talking about?
“Sunshine?”
“I’m sorry, King. I think I zoned out. What were you saying?” I mumble quickly, heat hitting my cheeks. King has tilted my entire thought process tonight because he’s been giving me all of his attention. He doesn’t look around the room. He doesn’t pick up his phone. He doesn’t let his attention go anywhere but to me. The man is doing the complete opposite of Dom. That isn’t what jars me quite so much, though. It’s that he’s not like my dad either. Dad smothers my mother. He holds her close. He orders for her. Heck, he even feeds her at times. Mom loves it. He’s always done everything for me, and I thought that’s what a man who was in love with his wife—or girlfriend—should do.
Not King. He asks for my input. He gives me my space, but he does it while still holding my hand. It’s completely different, and although he is entirely focused on me, I feel cared for and safe, yet my own person. Which brings me to the thought that rocked me to my core.
This is how it should be between a woman and a man.
Partners.
“I asked if you’ve tried the corn dip?” he says.
I look down at our appetizers. He ordered a variety platter, after asking me if I wanted anything. I usually just nibble around on the chips and salsa, so after making sure I got that, he ordered a variety tray, too. It seems too much food with what we ordered for entrees, but I didn’t say anything. King is a big man. This past week has shown me it takes a lot of food to fill him up.
“I don’t even know what corn dip is,” I murmur. This could get dicey. I know with my heritage I should love Mexican food. Yet, not only do I look like my mother, but I also have her tastes, which means I prefer Italian cuisine. I can eat tacos—which is what I ordered—but not my favorite.
He studies me, tilting his face to look at me. “Why am I sensing that you do not like Mexican food?”
“I don’t know. I ordered food, King,” I point out.
“I screwed all this up,” he whispers, but then his lips move into a big smile that I don’t quite understand.
“What?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
“I’m ten years older than you are,” he announces.
“Um … we’ve been other this, haven’t we?”