Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
At the breakfast table, Hunter reads a real, actual newspaper, the kind that leaves ink dust on your hands. The paper is folded into a precise rectangle next to his coffee mug. He doesn’t look up as I enter, but I know he’s aware—I can feel it in the subtle shift of his jaw, the flick of an eye above the rim of his mug. He’s too handsome for his own good, with that dark hair slicked back and a tiny smirk at the edge of his mouth.
I hover by the fridge for a beat, unsure if I’m allowed to just… be here, after last night. But it’s my father’s house, not his, and I refuse to do the walk of shame in my own kitchen. I yank open the fridge and take out the glass carafe of cold brew, then pour myself a mug with hands that only shake a little.
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Not until I’ve poured the coffee, added exactly one drop of cream (too much and it tastes like soap), and sat myself at the opposite end of the table, where the sunlight is less aggressive.
Only then does he lower the paper, folding it with a rustle so deliberate it sounds like a threat. He levels his gaze at me: blue, steady, and unbothered by my choice of nightwear, which is a Nicolette sample sale white nightgown that barely covers my ass. I tug at the hem, but it’s a lost cause. His eyes flick down, then back up, his face unreadable.
“Sleep well?” he says, and there’s just enough curve in his mouth to make the words dangerous.
I shrug. “I would’ve, but apparently someone brought in a whole cleaning crew at sunrise.”
He doesn’t apologize. “Your father’s orders,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Also, there were four bags of trash on the front lawn. And a pair of panties in the mailbox.” He takes a casual sip. “Not yours, I assume.”
I fight the urge to blush, but it’s a losing battle. My face prickles hot. I busy myself with the breakfast spread, which was laid out by our chef: a tiered platter of fruit, two covered dishes (one with bacon, one with scrambled eggs), a stack of toast slices arranged like dominoes, a butter dish with an actual tiny butter knife. There’s even a little pot of raspberry jam, the label in French. I load my plate with everything, even though I’m not hungry. I need something to do with my hands.
He waits until I’m settled, then says, “You’re not going to ask why I’m here early?”
I blink at him, twice. “Right. Because you weren’t supposed to show up until tonight.”
“Plans changed.”
I arch an eyebrow, then glance at the paper, as if the answer might be in the stock report. “You just love to keep people on their toes.”
He folds the paper again, sets it aside, and steeples his fingers. “I had a meeting canceled. Figured I’d check in on my favorite niece.”
The word stings, just a little. But I meet his gaze, refusing to let him see it. “Uh-huh. You came over on a Friday night, bone-tired after work, just to make sure I wasn’t dead.”
“I had a feeling you’d find a way to make things interesting.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a scoff. I chew my toast instead, refusing to look at him, aware of every inch of exposed thigh under the table. My legs feel like they belong to a stranger. It’s as if the body I wore last night isn’t quite the same as the one I have to live in this morning.
He leans back, the chair creaking. He’s wearing a charcoal sweater, the sleeves pushed to his elbows, and I can see the tan lines on his wrists. His hair is damp—he’s showered already, like a psychopath—and he looks even more like a CEO than he did last night. All business, no mercy.
I clear my throat. “The party’s over, by the way. You can relax.”
“Didn’t look very relaxing when I walked in,” he says, and this time there’s no mistaking the smirk. “If I’d been ten minutes later, I’d have walked in on your… what was his name?”
“Brad.” I set my fork down a little too hard. “And nothing happened.”
He makes a sympathetic noise, like he’s talking to a pet that just peed the carpet. “No need to be embarrassed. Not every guy is up to the challenge. He was what— two inches? Three?”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I snap, ears hot with embarrassment. “It’s just—” I search for the word. “It’s complicated. And size isn’t the only thing that matters.”
He lets the silence stretch, like he’s savoring it. “I beg to disagree, my dear. Size matters very much. I thought you wanted to ‘lose your senses,’” he says, quoting me from who-knows-when. “Didn’t look like he was the right size to make that happen.”