Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I don’t know why Leon insisted on leaving at night. I hate driving in the dark. The cabin is pretty remote, and part of the hour and twenty-minute drive will be in the pitch black. He wasn’t going to budge, and it looked like the vein in his forehead and both his eyes were going to pop out, so I gave in.
Now I’m sitting outside all eager freaking beaver chump here on my doorstep with my duffel bag. I have my arms crossed, a set of cut-off shorts on, and a hoodie thrown over my tank top. Oh, and flip-flops. Because I’m officially on vacay.
With. My. Husband.
Not really my husband, but kind of my husband. Legally, totally my husband. Ugh. Sigh.
A sweep of headlights coming into the complex’s front entrance and circling around my place has me putting a pause on those thoughts. They get an immediate jumpstart, right along with my pounding heart, when I recognize Leon’s red electric car.
I hope he charged that bloody thing and charged it well because if we get stranded, I know for a fact that we are pooched and will be pooched in the middle of bum farge nowhere.
I swallow back my worries about that in favor of giving Leon a scowl when he pulls up to my doorstep. He literally just lingers there, parked horizontally behind my car. Then, the passenger window rolls down. “Are we going, or are you sitting there all night?”
Hmph. So much for him being a gentleman.
He does unlock the doors, at least, so I can throw my bag into the backseat alongside his much neater, darker square suitcase that has a handle and wheels. I almost want to slide in there with the bags, give him the address, then feign sleep all the way. Let him get lost and run out of freaking electricity. It would serve his rude arse right. I just married the guy this morning, and he can’t even be bothered to help me with my bag?
It doesn’t matter that it’s not heavy. It’s the principle of it.
Taking the backseat way out feels like a true copout, so instead, I put on my best revenge dress-worthy smile and climb into the front. The car smells like him—him and his nice manly, earthy, fresh scent. It’s more earth than anything, like fresh rain on fresh-cut grass.
I might be a city girl, but I was raised at that cabin that we’re heading toward. We lived in Seattle, but my grandparents owned it, and then my parents took over the ownership, and while it might still be theirs, I know that one day, it will be passed down to the three of us kids so we can keep taking care of it. So, yeah. For a girl who was raised on country air, lake water, our little sandy beach, fishing, campfires, flowerbeds, and gardens, I really do like the smell of earth.
That’s what I’m blaming for the shiver that goes racing its way right up to my teeth and making my nipples so hard that the soft fabric of my bra actually feels scratchy. I can’t stop seeing Leon in that suit from this morning. He wears the same kind of suit to work all the time, a showcase of beauty so hard and rugged and wickedly tempting, but for some reason, he looked different this morning.
Ha, that’s right. Because it was our wedding morning and that suit was the one he married me in. That’s why that suit seemed special.
I give him tons of side-eye as I fasten my seatbelt and stare forward at the dash. It does nothing to stop the instant mouth drool I have going on over the fact that he isn’t wearing a suit now. He’s got a black T-shirt on, an old leather jacket thrown on top and left unzipped, and jeans.
Pretty much the bad boy anthem since the dawn of time, and my god, does the usual suit-wearing, immaculate Leon rock it.
I need to get my mind out of Leon’s not-so-guttery bad boy gutter and get my head on straight. I need to up my game. I can’t let him affect me this way. We have a week in close proximity together, so I have to be carefully neutral. The quickest way to cover up what I’m really feeling, which is flustered as all fuck, is to be annoying because I know Leon hates annoying.
“So, peachy pie pumpkin poo,” I say in my sweetest—I’m so excited that we’re married, I loooovvvveeee you, my precious husband wusband—voice. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive for you? It’s late and all, and I thought you might be tired.”
A muscle in Leon’s jaw jumps. “I’m good. What’s the address?”
I give it to him and when he punches it in and studies the GPS for a second, I can tell from his tense silence that he isn’t pleased.