Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Got it?” Matt calls out.
“It isn’t next to the mixer,” I shout back. A few seconds later, the door opens. “What am I doing in here?” I whisper as Matt steps inside.
“This.” In front of me now, he rests his hand on my shoulder and leans in, bringing with him the warmth of his body and the scent of soap and cologne. Everything south of my waist pulls tight at a sudden and very visceral memory. The moment is over in a blink as he pulls back, gently shaking a jar of hot chocolate mix. Harrods, of course.
“If you knew where it was—” I give a little squeak as he ducks quickly and presses his mouth to mine. Just a peck, nothing sexual, but a sneak attack. And he looks all kinds of pleased with himself. I’d better not be having a boy, I think, staring at him. He’s too much.
“I wanted to get you alone. Not like that,” he adds as I open my mouth to protest. His hand hovers over my waist for a moment, ultimately dropping to his side. “Should we tell her?”
“About the baby? Shouldn’t we wait?” A chicken begins to cluck in my head. “I know twelve weeks is what they say.” The rest of my sentence echoes in my head. But I’m not ready.
“What they say? Say about what?”
“Twelve weeks seems to be a convention. People wait until then in case . . .”
His hand finds mine. “Don’t think like that. Not at twelve weeks, fourteen, or forty.”
“We’ll tell her before forty weeks,” I say, trying to joke while feeling anything but funny.
“We don’t have to say anything to her. Not yet.”
“But do you think Clodagh might blab?”
He gives his head a quick shake. “I don’t think she knew what we were talking about.”
I pull a face, unconvinced.
“She probably just repeated what she heard.”
“I don’t know.” But the way he’s looking at me is distracting. It makes me feel all kinds of unnecessary things.
“Besides, that’s what cartoons, pastries, and hot chocolate are for.”
“Distractions. Good thinking.”
His reply is a quick, reassuring squeeze to my fingers before he turns. I follow, of course. Because that ass. I mean—
“It was on a high shelf,” he announces as he exits the pantry.
“Short joke. Great!” I retort as though this is our regular shtick. Rather than taking my seat again and enduring another undignified hop and heave, I lean against the end of the island and watch Clodagh do it instead. But first, she takes a quick detour into the kitchen.
“I didn’t say anything,” Matt says, holding up both hands.
“But you used the cup,” she says, producing a glass cookie jar full of money from a low cabinet. The kind of money that folds.
“You can’t even read!” Matt scoffs.
“Can too,” she retorts, all short-person adorableness as she clambers back into her seat.
“What does it say, then?”
“I’m f—” Clodagh stops as she finds her mother’s hand over her mouth. “You tried to trick me!” she complains as it drops. “That’s not very nice, Uncle Matty!”
“Neither is the cup,” her mother murmurs, tapping the rim of the saucer.
I glance down and realize there are words printed among the flowers, twining like vines. I’m fucking radiant, the twining script reads.
“He has a few of these,” Letty offers. “One of them looks perfectly ordinary, until you’ve finished your tea and look down and read You’ve been poisoned.”
“Matt!” His name comes out in a gurgling chuckle.
“Do you have brothers?” Letty asks.
My gaze dips, but only briefly. “I’m an only child.”
“Lucky you,” she adds, but I can tell she’s only kidding.
“Ahem!” Clodagh shakes her cookie jar again.
“No way,” Matt complains as he pulls milk from the fancy fridge, then fires up an equally fancy coffee machine. “The deal is you only get money when the words come out of my mouth.”
“I have words.” The little girl frowns at her uncle’s back.
“They’d better not be rude ones,” Letty censures.
“Mommy.” Clodagh turns in her seat to face her mom. “Where do babies come from?”
My heart literally plummets, and Matt’s arm pauses midair as he reaches for a cup.
I know the answer to this one, the answer in our case, at least. Alcohol, reduced inhibitions, super sperm, and defective prophylactics.
“Well, honey, that’s not really a conversation for right now.” Her mother brushes Clodagh’s hair from her face, the gesture quite tender.
“Yeah, but where do they come from?”
“Amazon,” Matt says, now pouring milk into a little pink cup. “They have everything.”
“No, Uncle Matty,” the little girl says with a laugh. Is it me, or did that have a tiny edge of gleeful malice to it?
“Then maybe the machine at the arcade.” He makes a snapping motion with his hand without turning around. “The one with the claw.”
“Please, Mommy. I want to know!”
“You know where they come from.” Her mom’s tone turns firm.