Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
He found a sleep mask in the welcome basket and covered my eyes before kissing and caressing every inch of my body. In the darkness, the sensations were so much more intense. Each whispered breath was a shout. Every lick of his tongue made me shiver. In the end, I took off the blindfold to return the favor, and all I could see was him.
My breathing is a little uneven just remembering it. But I have to focus, because I need to chop the chicken and veggies and I’d like to get through that with all my fingers still attached.
When I’m done and the knife is safely in the sink, I beat the eggs, then sauté onions and mushrooms for my one guaranteed crowd-pleaser, the Leftover Scramble. (I joke about pizza rolls but I do occasionally cook other things.)
What started as a way to stretch a meal actually became a delicious breakfast dish that I’ve been perfecting over the years. And it works for everything. Chicken. Chinese takeout. Italian. Just add eggs, a few secret spices and whatever else you have in your pantry, and voilà! You too can pretend you’re an actual chef.
To keep from worrying about whether or not Michael will appreciate my offering, or when Connor might be showing up, I find the song Bex was talking about and turn up the volume on my phone. It’s one of the current favorites at Royale’s. If I were still performing, I’d choose it too. It feels eerily close to the reality of that time in my life. The chorus even includes a disapproving mother.
I let the music roll through me as I cook. Stirring with a wooden spoon, I bump and grind burlesque style. I add in the extra ingredients for flavor, then slide a hand down my leg, flipping my imaginary wig and throwing a sultry look at my invisible audience.
Ever since I mentioned it to Michael, I’ve been remembering how much joy it used to bring me, donning glittering outfits and different personalities before putting on a show. I wasn’t lying when I told him it wasn’t a necessary part of my life, but it did make me feel sexier and more powerful than I have before or since. Until I got to this cabin.
I’ve been considering giving him a private performance at some point. Or a not-so-private one. I bet the gang would welcome me back for a night if I told them I had a date to impress.
You’re still a teacher. And you still don’t date. They all know that and so do you.
I’m on a break, in a remote cabin, and I can do whatever I want as long as I’m still surrounded by all the wood I’ve grown so fond of. I can also imagine whatever I want. Like dancing for Michael wearing nothing but a sultry smile…and maybe some pasties.
I let myself get lost in the music, my body instinctively moving through my favorite old moves—even in jeans, I’ve still got it—while I use the wooden spoon as a microphone and sing along to the lyrics.
I’m just having fun
On the stage in my heels
It’s where I belong
“Down at the Pink—Holy shit!”
I fling the spoon across the room because there are two creatures wrapped up like snow-caked mummies staring at me through the kitchen window.
When one of them waves, I sag against the island, my heart pounding. Did Connor really get here that fast? “Jesus. Try knocking on the door next time, you idiot.”
Yesterday, the snow was too high for anyone to be where they’re standing. But last night when it stopped, Michael dug out a small track around the cabin for the dogs to play in. After days of being cooped up inside, they were thrilled to have an adventure.
And now we have company.
The thinner mound of clothing pulls down his scarf to reveal a broad, attractive grin. When he pulls up his goggles, I realize it’s not Connor or Seamus. It’s Michael’s nephew.
“Jake Finn, what the hell,” I murmur.
The man beside him does the same, though he isn’t grinning, which is unusual for him. Whenever I’ve seen Bellamy Demir from a distance, he was always the happiest man in the room. Apparently, he isn’t as amused by my performance as his son is.
I’m even less amused, because their intrusion means my time with Michael is over.
I’m not ready for it to be over.
Ignoring that blip of a thought, I lower the flame on the stove and lightly limp over to the door. Just before I reach it, I glance up to the top of the stairs. Should I call for him? Wait for him to answer the door?
Why bother? I’m probably the reason they’re here this early in the morning.
I grab Michael’s sheepskin jacket and step out onto the porch, closing the door behind me so the dogs can’t escape. “Good morning.”