Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
He is still waiting. The silence stretches out until it’s just him, me, and the sound of my own heartbeat thumping in my ears.
“Of course I’ll marry you,” I finally whisper. And then, because the inside of my head is chaos and the only way out is through, I grab his face and kiss him with everything I have.
It’s not a delicate kiss. It’s the kind that bruises lips and knocks teeth and leaves both of us panting. His hands tangle in my hair, one arm wrapping so tight around my waist I’m pretty sure I’ll have fingerprints tomorrow.
When we finally come up for air, we’re both breathless and a little stunned.
We end up collapsed together on the couch, me half in his lap, our bodies tangled up and warm. I rest my head on his shoulder and stare at my hand, watching the ring sparkle in the lamplight.
For a while, neither of us says anything. There is nothing left to say. The world outside could be burning down, but here in this room, I am safe and whole for the first time since I can remember.
Finally, I say, “We’re going to have to tell my mom.”
He snorts. “I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Oh come on, you know she loves you.” I pause, considering. “She’s going to want to plan the wedding right away.”
“As long as you’re happy with the wedding, I don’t care.” He shrugs, lips pressed to my forehead. “You can have whatever kind of wedding you want, fever. Elvis chapel in Vegas, courthouse, backyard barbecue. As long as you show up, I’m happy.”
I close my eyes, thinking about it. I don’t want a big wedding. I don’t want to wear a poofy dress and pretend to care about centerpieces. I want to marry him somewhere beautiful, somewhere I can walk barefoot and not worry about tripping over my own dress.
“Can we get married on a beach?” I ask.
He grins, slow and easy. “We can do it tomorrow if you want.”
I smile, feeling the last of the nerves bleed away. “I’ll need at least a month to prep. Minimum.”
“Fine,” he says. “But not a minute longer.”
At some point, I tell him I’m thinking about going back to school for maybe law, or counseling, or something that would help women like Casey. He says he thinks I’d be amazing, that I could do anything, and thank my lucky stars Wyatt Byrne walked into my life.
He tells me about a job offer he got from Giant Carmichael’s Security Firm. It would mean working a more normal schedule which sounds like heaven to me. Working night shift has been wearing on both of us. I tease him about having to wear a suit, and he threatens to handcuff me to the bed if I keep making jokes.
“Promise?” I say, waggling my eyebrows.
He laughs, a full-body sound that rattles my bones. “You’re going to keep me on my toes,” he says.
“Definitely.” I pause. “Forever.”
“Forever,” he echoes. And for the first time in my life, the word doesn’t scare me at all.
Sunday morning is my favorite time in the world, especially when I wake up tangled in Wyatt Byrne’s arms with the Texas sun pouring through the bedroom window.
I roll over, and Wyatt is gone. There’s a Wyatt-shaped crater in the mattress next to me, still warm. I flop onto my back, stretching as I stare at the ceiling, counting my lucky stars. My lady parts are deliciously, gloriously sore in all the right places, and my hair feels like it’s been through a tornado, or at least a very energetic round of couch sex.
The bedroom door swings open and in walks my fiancé with two mugs of coffee. God, I love calling him that, and I’m going to use it at every opportunity. He’s shirtless, but wearing my favorite pair of his jeans, the ones that hang a little low on his hips and look like they were custom-made for his ass. His hair is a disaster and his eyes are a sleepy, molten green.
“Morning, fever,” he says, voice half a growl and all affection. “You want sugar in your coffee or are you sweet enough?”
I prop myself up on one elbow and shoot him the stink eye. “That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
He sets the mugs on the nightstand and sits down next to me. “I can do worse,” he promises, then leans in for a kiss that tastes like toothpaste and black coffee and something all Wyatt. Safety. Belonging. A kind of joy I thought only happened to other people.
I forget all about the coffee as he slides a hand into my hair, his fingers tangling in the mess of it, and I can feel the heat of his palm against my scalp. His laugh is low, a rumble that vibrates through me like an earthquake. “Jesus, fever. You’re going to kill me. I’m too old to fuck like bunnies through the night.”