Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I stand in the entryway, card in hand, staring at the spot where Evan just stood. My pulse is going way too fast, and it’s not for the reasons I thought it would be. It’s not the fear of the unknown, or the awkwardness of our interaction. It’s the sense that something just changed, and I have no idea what happened, or what to do about it.
I walk to the kitchen, sink onto a stool, and run my fingers over the edge of Evan’s business card. The number is embossed, the surface almost soft to the touch.
I tuck the card into my pocket, pour myself another cup of coffee, and stare out at the city below.
Trevor will be home in a few hours.
Hopefully, he doesn’t blow a gasket when he finds out who was just here.
But somehow, I have a feeling he will.
26
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
Trevor
Ilet the door close behind me, slow, letting the soft click ring out in the hush of the entry. The hallway is all glass and shadow at this hour, the long rug lit up only at the edges by a scatter of lamps Kayleigh must have set to “cozy” mode. My hands are full — keys, phone, a folder with the day’s contract notes — but what I’m really carrying is the day itself, a pulse of stress that starts at the base of my skull and works all the way down to my knuckles.
But the moment I step into the open space of the main room, the air changes. There’s music on, low, the kind of playlist that’s all cellos and minor chords. The kitchen glows gold, haloed by under-cabinet LEDs, and in the center of it is Kayleigh, back to me, stirring something in a heavy saucepan.
She’s barefoot, the heels of her feet pale against the black tile. The dress is a thin, sky-blue thing with little straps barely containing her shoulders, the whole length of her hair knotted up in a way that makes her neck look long and soft. There’s no apron, so when she reaches for the pepper grinder, the dress tugs across her back and the hem lifts, showing a strip of thigh and the faint line where her underwear must be digging in.
She’s so in it — the cooking, the humming, the private rhythm of her body — that she doesn’t notice me at first. I watch her for a beat, keys resting in my hand, letting the edges of my irritation melt away. This is the best part of coming home. I could stand here all night, inventorying the shape and color of her, letting her female energy domesticate me.
I set the keys on the marble and clear my throat. She jumps, then whips around, spoon in hand, blue eyes going huge.
“Oh! You scared me,” she laughs, setting the spoon in a ceramic rest. “You’re home early.”
I check the clock over the range. It’s 7:15.
“Am I?” I say, and for a second it’s just us, her at the stove and me in the threshold, the city below us lit up like a hardware store Christmas aisle. The glass makes everything outside look both close and infinitely far away.
She leans back against the counter, arms crossed at the elbows. I see the faint smudge of flour at her collarbone, the soft flush in her cheeks. I want to bite her there, mark her again. Instead, I loosen my tie and undo the top button.
“Smells good,” I say, nodding at the pan.
She grins, bashful. “It’s just soup. I was feeling basic.”
“That’s my favorite flavor.”
She looks away, pretending to check the pot, but I catch the smile before it disappears. She dips a spoon, sips, blows on it, then gestures at me.
“Want to taste?” she offers.
I cross the kitchen, crowding her back against the counter. The dress is even flimsier up close, the straps an afterthought. Her hair smells like vanilla and the back of her neck is still warm from the steam. She holds the spoon up, but I shake my head and dip a finger in the broth instead, then drag it slow along the seam of her lips.
She shudders, just a little, and her tongue darts out to taste it.
“Good girl,” I say, voice low.
She blushes, but then a look crosses her face — a flash of nerves, maybe, or something more complicated. She pulls away and grabs two bowls from the shelf.
“Want to eat at the table?” she says, already pouring soup, not looking at me.
I don’t answer, just take the bowls and follow her to the dining area, a slab of walnut and chrome with two chairs. The wall of windows holds the whole city, the Mississippi winding black through the lights. She sits across from me, hands folded, the hem of her dress riding up farther now that she’s perched on the seat.