Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“I’m sure.”
I’m not, but what else can I say in a situation like this? Shiloh is my best friend, but some things you need to keep to yourself.
“I’ll be right back.”
I straighten my coat before walking briskly down the paved path. The doorbell barely rings before it is yanked open so forcefully that it almost comes off its hinges.
“Mommy!”
Bella leaps into my arms and hugs me like she hasn’t seen me in weeks before she peers up at me with big, hungry eyes.
I’m a sucker for her begging stare.
“The cupcakes are in the car with Shiloh. I packed an extra one just for you.”
“Thank you, Mommy!” she shouts before she pivots on her heels to gather her backpack from her father, and her graduation outfit she won’t need until this afternoon, before she bolts past me.
I try to act like my heart isn’t pattering in my ears when her father joins me in the foyer. He smells divine, his scent unchanging even with him going through fatherhood. It is as dark and dangerous as ever, and it sets my pulse racing.
“Hey, butterfly,” Nero greets as his eyes rake my body. “You look pretty.”
“This?” I wave off his compliment as if it is one in a trillion I receive per day. “It’s nothing special.”
Nero appears as if he wants to say something, but the annoying honk of an impatient woman stops him.
“I should get going. I don’t want Bell late for her official last day of preschool.”
As awkwardly as I did the first time I left his presence, I wave like a fool, then follow the steps our daughter recently took.
Shiloh eyeballs me while reversing out of the driveway of Nero’s first off-compound purchase. Her stare is full of suspicion, and it makes me super-hot.
After a beat, she murmurs, “That went better than anticipated.”
She can say that. She can’t feel how sweaty I am under my coat. I’m a messy, sticky inferno.
My unease slips away when I peer back at Bella in her car seat. Her face is covered with butter icing, and her hands are as sticky as the cups of my new bra.
I’ve only just cleaned her up when we arrive at her school.
“Yoohoo! Miranda.”
Ms. Croft, Bella’s teacher, waves us to a reserved spot at the front of the drop-off line. That’s how desperate she is for my baked goods. Though she does treat me like a VIP every time I do a school visit, so perhaps it has nothing to do with the cupcakes I promised her class.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when Ms. Croft says, “Oh, Miranda. You’ve outdone yourself. These cupcakes are fantastic.”
“Thank you,” I reply, genuinely flushed from the sheer delight in her tone.
Needing to leave before the heat roaring through my body forces me to unbutton my coat, I kiss Bella goodbye before slipping into Shiloh’s van and demanding she floor the gas.
We’re barely two blocks away when I’m reminded daftness isn’t solely reserved for fresh-out-of-college women.
“I forgot the candle for the cake.”
Shiloh shrugs. “So?”
“It’s a birthday cake. You can’t have a birthday cake without a candle.” I take a moment to deliberate before saying, “Go to my house. It will be quicker than detouring back to the bakery.”
“Do you want me to call ahead and see if the hotel has a candle you can borrow? We’re already behind.”
I shake my head. “Just go back to my house.”
She huffs before giving in.
“I’m sorry,” she screams at the person she cuts off when she conducts a dangerous U-turn.
Shiloh’s lead foot sees us arriving home in under a minute, and I race down the footpath just as fast.
While Tempy dances around my feet, I check my baking stock in the massive walk-in pantry, and the junk drawer every American has in their kitchen, before I search for a candle in the cupboards above the refrigerator.
I find what I’m seeking just as a deep, delicious voice asks, “Don’t you think it is a little warm for a coat, butterfly?”
I swallow the lump in my throat before carefully stepping off the stepladder and turning to face the voice. “Nero, what are you doing here?”
He steps closer, unshadowing his devastatingly handsome face and forcing my thighs to touch. “This is my house.”
His dark and dangerous eyes lower to the daring flap of my trench coat for half a second before they slowly return to my face.
They’re brimming with lust and are very much possessive.
“And you are my wife. Where else am I meant to be?”
My confusion gets a moment of reprieve when I stray my eyes to the kitchen counter. The note I left there this morning appears untouched. Does that mean he’s clueless that I cleared his schedule so he could meet me at his latest hotel for brunch?
There’s nothing of sustenance on the menu I planned for him—except my husband’s most craved palette. Me!