Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
And then, of course, there was the stupendously amazing sex.
Bent over the dining table.
On the sofa.
Against the wall.
Even on the rug in front of the fire one particularly chilly summer evening.
Shrugging off the images that flooded my brain and erogenous zones, I moved through his space, searching for the books and tablet. My heart leapt into my throat because they were in the exact same place I’d left them. I was sure of it.
There was one of my paperbacks on the coffee table.
One on the edge of the kitchen counter, next to my tablet.
I picked them up as I passed, frowning as I stared warily into the bedroom suite. The rest of my stuff—toiletries—should be in there.
Most of the memories were in that room.
Tears of frustration burned my eyes, but I blinked them back. When I’d promised that night Ramsay left the Lantern with the redhead that I wouldn’t give him anymore tears, I’d kept my vow. It hadn’t been easy. There had been some close calls over the weeks.
But I was determined to be strong. Not just because I’d recovered better than anyone could have expected from my attack, not just because I was determined not to grieve him, but because I had to live on this tiny island and see this man all the time. There was no other option for me but to compartmentalize the month I’d spent with him.
And get over it.
I had to move on.
Throwing my shoulders back, I strode into the bedroom and veered off into the bathroom first.
Staring at his vanity … I paused.
All my things were still here in the exact same place I’d left them.
The spare electric toothbrush I’d bought to keep here. My extra makeup bag. Deodorant. A hairbrush. It was all where I’d left it. It was like … he’d cleaned and then put all my stuff back in the same place.
I absentmindedly rubbed at the ache in my chest as I looked at my reflection.
If I closed my eyes, I could see Ramsay behind me at this sink. Hands on my hips. Lips trailing across the nape of my neck, which he knew was a sensitive spot for me. His bathroom was a wet room, so there was a massive walk-in shower where we’d explored each other’s bodies with an abandon I’d never experienced before.
Anytime I’d caught glimpses of Ramsay since he ended it, my immediate thought was one of vulnerability—this guy knew my body better than I did. He’d seen a side of me no one else had. He knew what I sounded like when I came. What my expressions were. How much I liked to be dominated. That I loved when he talked dirty while we were having sex. That I could come while he spanked my ass and told me the things he wanted to do to me.
This was knowledge only the man who shared my bed should know.
Except he no longer shared my bed. And he still knew.
One day, when I met someone else, Ramsay would always be walking around knowing these things about me, even as I gave them to another man.
It was disconcerting and one of the reasons it was harder to “just get over it.”
My hands curled around the vanity, and I sucked in a big breath, letting it out in a shaky exhale. “You can do this,” I whispered.
Striding out, I walked into the kitchen and found the cupboard where Ramsay kept shopping bags. I took one and began putting all my stuff into it. In the bathroom, I searched for my perfume, the one thing I’d really wanted back. It was expensive and I didn’t have another bottle at Taran’s.
It wasn’t there. I could have sworn I’d left it there.
Forcing myself to, I walked out into the bedroom, avoiding the bed itself.
There.
On Ramsay’s bedside table was my perfume, sitting on the paperback I’d been in the middle of reading. I hadn’t left either of them there.
Confused, I slowly made my way over, staring down at them.
Why was my perfume and book on his bedside table?
Emotion clogged my throat.
Did that big asshole miss me?
No.
He … if Ramsay wanted me back, he’d have said something by now.
Or would he?
I didn’t know what the man was hiding from me, but was it enough to make him push me away?
He hadn’t slept with the folk singer … Was it guilt … or was it that he didn’t really want her?
Why did it matter?
In my frustrated anger, I reached for the perfume too fast and knocked it over the back of the bedside table. I winced as it clattered to the floor but thankfully didn’t smash. Grumbling, I dumped the shopping bag on the bed and leaned a hand on the wall behind the table to reach down the crack between it and the furniture. Not quite able to reach it, my hand slid down the wall for balance and landed on the wall light. The weight caused the wall light to flex downward and I let out a little cry of dismay, thinking I’d broken it.