Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I glance at the stove. At the sauce that’s been simmering so it will thicken. At the red wine I set out. At the pasta ready to add to the boiling water.
I’m using her, but yes. “She’s great.”
The doorbell cuts through the condo, causing my sister to inhale sharply.
“Oh my god, that’s her, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, big brother. Go be charming. And don’t overcook the pasta.”
Please—since when have I ever cooked pasta? Give me a damn break.
“I won’t.”
“And Aaron?”
“What?”
“Have fun.”
“Thanks. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I rinse my hands, dry them, then lumber toward the entry. Steel myself before pulling open the front door, only to be momentarily stupefied by the sight of Juliette standing on the other side.
Yes, I was expecting her.
Yes, I was fully aware she’d be ringing my doorbell at seven.
No, I wasn’t ready for how she’d look.
Her hair is down—down, not braided within an inch of its life—falling onto her shoulders in loose waves, long and soft. Button-down shirt is only buttoned to the center of her chest, lace bra flirting with my line of vision. Same jeans. Same shoes.
Pink lips.
Doe eyes.
Super fucking pretty.
When I saw her several hours ago, she could have blended in with the librarians—hair braided, conservative outfit, all business and no flirting. Not even with Storm, though that doesn’t stop him from trying.
The thought of him has me scowling as I gaze down at her.
There’s a half beat where I stand here a second too long, taking her in, and she shifts under my scrutiny.
Shit.
She’s supposed to be falling in love with you, not getting creeped out by you, dude.
Right.
Time to start laying on the charm.
“Please, come to the kitchen.” Without fully thinking it through, I lean down and press a quick kiss to her cheek as she passes over the threshold, and it catches us both off guard, a little O of surprise forming on her mouth.
Then—because she smells so fucking good—I wrap my arms around her waist and finish the job, pulling her against my body for a kiss.
It’s not tentative.
Her hands fly to my chest on instinct, a quiet sound of surprise escaping her before her tongue meets mine. And not to brag, but yeah, she melts against me. Fingers curling into my shirt, body fitting into mine.
I angle my head, deepen it enough to make my dick twitch.
When we pull back, she’s out of breath. Touches the tips of her fingers to her lips.
“Well,” she says, voice a little unsteady. “That escalated quickly.”
“You started it.”
She laughs. “I did not.”
“You showed up looking like that.” Like a straight-A librarian with a filthy secret. The prim little button-down. Beneath it? I already know what sort of shit she wears and that memory alone makes my dick harder still.
Fuck.
Her chin notches defiantly. “Looking like what, exactly?”
I lean in, close enough that my mouth brushes her ear. “Like you wanted to be kissed.”
Her breath stutters when I nibble her earlobe.
“I came here to have dinner,” she says, but there’s no conviction behind it. “I was starving.”
“Sure you did.”
That earns me a look. Fiery. A challenge. The kind of look that says she might be sweet, but she likes this back and forth as much as I do. Likes the tug-of-war.
I lace our fingers together and guide her toward the kitchen. The scent of garlic and red wine hits us as we round the corner, the sauce bubbling on low heat on the stove. The overhead lights cast everything in a warm glow, domestic as fuck, which feels absurd considering how charged the air was thirty seconds ago.
She slows when she sees it all laid out, head on a swivel. Pasta waiting to be dropped. Bread sliced. Wine breathing on the counter.
I pull out one of the counter stools and pat it. “Sit.”
Drop another kiss below her ear.
I turn back to the stove before I do something reckless like drag her off that seat and forget the entire concept of dinner.
“Try this,” I say, dipping a wooden spoon into the sauce.
She leans forward automatically, mouth parting.
I pause. “Careful. It’s hot.”
“So are you,” she shoots back, then her eyes widen like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
A slow grin spreads across my face. “Are you flirting with me, Juliette Kennedy?”
“I’m complimenting your cooking.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet.”
She rolls her eyes but leans in again, waiting for me to lift the spoon to her lips. She blows on it, then licks the sauce with her tongue, closing her lips around the edge carefully.
My gaze drops to her mouth, causing more twitching in my lower half.
She hums. “Delicious. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” I grin, turning back toward the stove to drop the pasta in the boiling water, set the timer, and go about pouring us each a small glass of red wine.
“You’re very comfortable in here,” she says.