Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Crossing the room, he slides his hands under my jaw. “Listen, the kid saw me. No changing that, but he’ll be okay. I doubt he’ll think about it twice.”
“And what about you?” I ask, slipping my hands onto his sides to hold on to him. If for no other reason than I might not get another opportunity after this conversation.
Raising his hands, he says, “I was already damaged goods. So a kid busting me climbing out of his mom’s window isn’t going to cause any harm.” Walking into the hallway, he says, “I take my coffee black.”
“I probably could have guessed that.” I follow him into the living room, and we cut into the kitchen.
While he sets up at the island, relaxing on a stool, I move to the other side and turn on the coffee maker. He says, “Am I that predictable?”
“No. Just thinking how much I love a mocha latte and knowing you’re probably the exact opposite.” I scoop the beans from a sealed glass jar on the counter into the top of the machine. With the flick of a stainless-steel button, the machine starts grinding them. I pull two mugs from the cabinet and set them in place.
“Are we really so opposite, Ms. Dover?”
I think about the question. “Not in all ways, but some.” Turning around, I lean against the counter to face him. “You’re tougher than I am.”
“And you get that from my coffee order?”
“No. I get that from knowing you this past week.”
He gets up and comes around to the counter opposite me. Matching my position, he leans against it but then crosses his arms over his chest. “You aren’t weak. And you’re way fucking stronger than I am. I ran away when life got tough.” Swinging an arm out like he’s gesturing toward someone not here, he says, “You stayed and raised . . .” He sighs, but there’s no weight to it. It’s just kind of resolved from the way his expression can’t seem to settle on an emotion as it flips through its options. “Listen,” he starts again, this time his voice is softer, fitting our proximity. “You’ve been raising your son on your own. That’s not an easy task, even with help from your nanny.”
“I’m usually off on the weekend, but there’s a wedding on the property this evening, so I’m—”
“You don’t have to justify anything to me, Cricket.” Sounds more serious when he says my name instead of calling me Little Chirp or even babe like he did last night. He called me babe like he did back in Costa Rica, and it was just as potent last night in making me feel like the only woman caught in his spotlight.
Liquid starts filling the mugs, and I turn to check on it. When I look back at him, I reply, “I love him, Griffin. With all my heart.” I don’t know why I feel the need to plead my case, but I suppose it’s understandable since I’m on the cusp of losing him part of the time to his newfound father.
Don’t assume.
Don’t jump ahead.
“I know you do.” Coming to the counter next to me, he says, “We need to talk about where we go from here.”
“I don’t think it’s up to me.” The machine sputters to a stop, so I take one mug and hand it to him. I move to the fridge to grab creamer, keeping my eyes in the cool air versus behind me. “I’m here. We’re here. Me and Jacob.” Taking a deep breath, I return to stand next to him. “We’re not going anywhere.” Glancing at him, I ask, “Are you?”
“Tell me something.”
I angle toward him, resting the creamer bottle on the counter. “Okay?” I ask cautiously. This is where my world changes forever. Closing my eyes just briefly, I hope it’s for the better, wanting desperately to trust in him.
“When you said Jacob’s father was kind of in the picture, did you mean he sees him sometimes? Or?” He’s so close—standing next to me and to the truth. I don’t dare turn my head to meet his gaze. The intensity of energy flowing between us is already too much, though I know he’s only curious, fishing for something solid to hold on to.
“Kind of,” I whisper with my eyes trained on my coffee, hating myself for chickening out.
“You can tell me.” He whispers so quietly that I’m drawn into the kindness of his gaze. “Or you can let me jump to conclusions. I’ll leave it up to you to decide when you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?” My breath lumps in my throat along with anything else that would be a lie if I spoke.
He rolls back on the counter, staring ahead. “Did I ever tell you about my niece, Daisy?” Taking a sip, he drops that out there like bait. His demeanor is so relaxed that I start to doubt myself. Maybe he is only making casual chitchat. When he looks at me, he says, “Daisy is three. She’s got this light blond hair, so light that in the sunshine, it’s almost white.” My stomach sinks. He knows. “And these blue eyes that . . . Well . . .” He grins while facing me again, showing off the color of his own eyes in the process. “That run in the family.”