Total pages in book: 9
Estimated words: 8854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 44(@200wpm)___ 35(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 8854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 44(@200wpm)___ 35(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
“Okay, you’ve made your point.”
“I don’t think I have.” Taking a stool at the island, he raises his brows at my wine.
I ignore him, trying not to let him get under my skin. Impossible. He has direct access to my patience switch, and he presses that button for fun. “Yes,” I breathe. “You’re here, there, all over my bloody house, Jesse,” I smile sweetly and approach my bookshelf, my pride and joy, where a copy of every book I’ve written has pride of place. “But so are these guys.” I swoop my hand out, bringing his attention to my other titles. My other alphas.
His expression is instantly dark, the cogs of his mind spinning, his adorable—maddening—frown falling into place. “But they’re not me.”
“No one is, Jesse,” I reply tiredly, rolling my eyes.
“I still can’t believe you’ve cheated on me. And not with just one man, but with seventeen. Seventeen, Jodi, for fuck’s sake.”
I laugh. “What do you want me to do? Retire to save your enormous ego from being dented?”
“Yes.” He scoffs. “You should have retired in 2014.”
Before Miller. And all the others. Unbelievable. “I’m not retiring.” Not then, not now.
“Got any peanut butter?”
“Eh?”
“I’m peckish.”
“Peckish?”
He pouts. “Yes, peckish.”
God help me. “Fine, but then you can leave.” I go to my fridge and pull out a jar of peanut butter, placing it down on the counter with a heavy hand. I know what’s coming the moment his eyes land on the jar. “I don’t have Sun-Pat,” I say before he voices his disapproval.
“Why the hell not?” He picks up the jar and gives it a filthy look.
“It’s organic.” I pull the drawer open and fish out a spoon, handing it over. He recoils. “No fingers either,” I add.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” He looks at the label, squinting.
“Need an eye test?” I ask. “What are you now, fifty—”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Jodi, it doesn’t suit you.”
“My readers beg to differ.”
“It’s crunchy too?” His eyes widen in horror as he holds the jar up, thrusting it toward me. “No Sun-Pat, no fingers, and now you’re telling me it’s not smooth?”
“Deal with it. You’re lucky I have some; I don’t even like peanut butter.”
“Then whose is this?”
“My boys.”
“I thought you of all people would keep my favourite.”
“Why? In case you dropped by unexpectedly on Christmas Eve to trample my Christmas tree?”
“Yes, exactly that.” He unscrews the lid and shoves his finger in, green eyes drilling into me, daring me to challenge him and his finger-dipping. I would if I had the energy. Lucky for him, my new alpha has drained me dry today while I chased The End. I won’t tell Jesse that. Best not poke the bear.
Popping his finger in his mouth, he slowly pulls off the peanut butter on a hum of delight. “Not bad,” he muses, abandoning the jar and standing. “So, the tree.” He strides over and takes in my eight-foot beauty. “Let’s settle this.”
“Okay, it’s settled, you don’t get the top position this year. Are we done? Great. Time for you to go.” I take his arm, trying to encourage him—and his ego—out of my kitchen. He doesn’t budge. Not one inch. God damn me, I rue the day I made him such an irrational, unmovable control freak.
“You should know by now, dear creator.” Taking my hand, he detaches it from his arm. “I always win.”
“For the love of God.”
“You can call me Your Lord.”
“I’d rather call you an unreasonable, neurotic control freak.”
His nostrils flare. It’s boring. “You owe me,” he grates.
“For what?”
“For putting me through everything you’ve ever put me through.”
“It was for your own good.” Although you’ve clearly not lost your ego. Or your obstinacy. Or your holier-than-thou attitude. “Fine,” I say, sighing.
“Oh good, I knew you’d see sense.” He reaches for the glass bauble dedicated to him, his lip curling at all the other alphas littering my table.
“Hold your horses, Ward.”
He freezes, looking over his shoulder with a worried, raised brow. “What?”
“If we’re going to have a debate over top spot on my Alpha Tree, it should be fair.”
His shoulders drop, and he looks to the heavens for patience. It’s the most condescending gesture. “And I’ll win that debate too,” he drones, claiming his jar again and sinking his finger in.
“We’ll see.” I collect my mobile off the island.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting the others.”
“Wait, what?” His finger, half coated in peanut butter, hangs limply in front of his open mouth. “The others? The other what?”
“I’m texting all of my other alphas.” With the exception of Johnny and Frank. They’re in 1816; no telephones. Telepathy?
Jesse laughs, and it’s one hundred percent uneasy. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Feeling threatened?” I ask, head tilted, silently amused.
He sniffs, standing tall, chest puffing out. “Watch your damn mouth.” Then licks his finger clean.
“You’re so fucking predictable.” And exasperating. Jesse flinches, my blue language obviously like razors over his skin. Good. “Take a seat.” I point to a leather chair in the corner of the snug area, and he looks at it, unsure.