Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Whatever happened last night, nothing has fundamentally changed. He’s still the bane of my life. And I’m still me. Sensible Prim. Soon to be a doctor on a ward full of elderly patients, far away from here.
I follow the aroma of coffee and force my mouth to adopt a smile, even if I’m not really feeling it. Because beneath all my thoughts and my internal dialogue lurks a tiny kernel of fear I’m trying hard not to acknowledge.
What if he pretends last night didn’t happen?
Worse, what if he blames me for it?
I probably looked like Gollum clutching the One Ring, only my precious was a slice of chocolate torte. And then there was my off-key rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus. I can’t believe he turned on the light, let alone…
But maybe he’s thinking the very same things this morning and regretting it. Maybe he didn’t enjoy it. He didn’t get off. Again. What if he agrees with me now—what if I am just a really bad fuck? What if I was a pity fuck?
Just. Stop.
I mentally bring down the shutters. I’m not going to indulge in this spiral of thoughts.
I take a deep inhale and push it out slowly. I need to be done with the whys and wherefores and move the hell on. There really is no use crying over spilt milk. Or un-spilt jizz, as the case may be.
I need to get out of my own head, put a little professional distance between us, and get in first with that news. Make him understand last night can never happen again. Three orgasms or not, I won’t leave. I’ll do the right thing for Emmy and for my sense of pride. I won’t run away with my tail between my legs.
“Hey, Prim. Good morning!”
At the sound of Zoe’s cheerful greeting, I almost squeal. I was so tied up in the mire of my mind, I almost didn’t realize I’d reached the kitchen.
“Hi,” I reply a little more sedately. “Morning.”
“And isn’t it a beautiful one!” she adds enthusiastically from the corner of the island, a paring knife in one hand and kiwi fruit in the other. Dressed in dark shorts and a white tee—to my dark shorts and white button down—her hair is post-shower curly and tied back in a messy bun. I seriously have no idea how she’s so perky given she’s up at sparrow fart every day to prep breakfast.
“Er, yeah. It’s lovely.” I almost crabwalk past her because I can’t look at her, and I certainly can’t look at the marble counter. I anti-bac’d the whole island top last night because I knew I wouldn’t have been able to sleep for the thoughts of the kids eating their breakfast this morning in the place their father ate…well, you know.
“You feelin’ okay?”
“I slept funny,” I say, still avoiding her gaze like she’s one of the Gorgon sisters. “Morning, squids,” I croak as I gently tug on Sylvie’s messy braid as I pass. “Someone forgot to brush her hair this morning.”
“I am not a squid,” she replies laughingly, looking up from what looks like, a bougie açaí bowl. No Cheerios in this household.
“Octopus, then?”
“I am Sylvie!”
“That’s what I said. Sylvie the squid. Good morning, Felix. How are you?”
He grunts his response, spoon-deep in a jar of fancy chocolate spread next to a piece of tostada. It would appear Felix is as reluctant to look me in the eye as I am his father. Not that the daddy Du Beaumont is here. Huzzah!
“Primrose, please may we go swimming this morning?” Sylvie decorously pats her mouth with a linen napkin.
I press my hand to my chest. “I am honored you want to hang out with me. I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore.”
“I like you very much, she says, her eyes wide and earnest. “And I enjoy to spend time with you, but I also enjoy to spend time with my Spanish friends.”
“You don’t have any friends,” Felix mutters.
“I have Sophia and Maria and Jose. Andiamo, and Bouton, and oso Lola,” she says, going on to list off the names of the other llamas.
“Also,” I gently correct as her brother grumbles,
“Animals don’t count.”
“Felix,” she says, tipping her cute little nose in the air. “Do you think you could stop being mean to me?”
“Do you think you could stop asking stupid questions?” comes his retort.
I slide onto the kitchen stool the farthest away from Zoe, thanking the stars I’m not supposed to understand them bickering in French. But the arguing continues and their volume increases, and that I can’t ignore.
“More eating, less talk,” I say over the din. Then slap my hand to my mouth.
“Something wrong?” A hawk-eyed Zoe asks from the other end of the island.
Oh, Zoe, yes. Something is very wrong. You see, I said something very similar to their father last night. And je regrette… a bunch of stuff. Like disregarding his no-condom warning. I practically begged the man to gimme a lil more than just the tip.