Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Ummmm, okay, that’s too far.
Alright, so maybe I’d like to have him saw at my bottom lip instead of working so hard on his own and then run my tongue over the stings he’s made, soothing them. Maybe I’d like to—
“I can’t believe you just heard me cussing out this jar of jam.”
I shrug, offering a small smile. I’m slightly embarrassed myself because I’m standing here in a gray tank top, sans bra, and a pair of fuzzy blue pajama bottoms with cartoon hearts and polar bears holding hands and dancing all over them. “I think opening jars is pretty much one of the most difficult and universally hated things. Everyone struggles with it.”
I scan the kitchen for a bank of drawers, but instead, I find a big ass knife block on the counter, so I walk over and pull out a huge, deadly-looking one. Darius’ eyes widen slightly, and I say, “Relax. Murderous wife isn’t a title I want to have anytime soon.”
“What exactly is the timeline for anytime soon?”
I grin and reach for the jar. Darius slides it along the countertop. He’s very dubious and isn’t taking any chances with me practically wielding a sword. I get it. “This sometimes works.” I take the jar and whack it a couple of times with the back end of the blade. It makes a few indents in the jar’s red lid. I place the knife aside and try to twist it off, but nothing.
I’ve seen my mom do the banging trick a few times, so I turn the jar over and knock it viciously against the prep table’s edge. Then, I give another few twists after. Still nope. That baby isn’t budging.
I walk over to the double sink against the wall, a big stainless bay of compartments, and turn the hot water tap on. When it’s flowing and steaming, I run the lid under it for a few seconds before pulling it out, waving off the heat tendrils, and giving it another go.
“What a damn asshole this jelly is,” I declare, my frustration getting the better of me.
Darius sidles up beside me and takes the jar. “It’s okay. Just leave it. I can make do with peanut butter.”
“You were going to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Be still my heart.
He glances around the kitchen like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, and then he nods.
“You’re one-upping me,” I assure him. “I would probably eat it with a spoon and not tell anyone and put both jars back. Then again, if I lived alone, it wouldn’t be a big deal.” I let my eyes scour the kitchen furiously again because it’s either that or start ogling my husband, who is way too hot at two in the morning, haunting this kitchen like a scruffy, sexy, tall, dark, broody, jam-cussing ghost. “There has to be something in here that opens jars. Like an actual opener or a freaking garlic-peeling mat. Those are grippy, and they work amazing.”
“I looked. But I didn’t find anything.”
I blow air out past my lips. “Well, that sucks. I guess peanut butter it is, then. Is there bread? Or wait, bananas? I could make us peanut butter banana sandwiches!”
“There are bananas over—” Darius goes to point, but his breath hisses out in a rush at the end, and he grasps his shoulder. “There,” he finishes with a gasp as he rubs the spot, rolling it and pretending like it’s not so bad.
“Your arm hurts. Did you wrench it trying to get that stupid jar open?”
I can tell he hates that question. Of course he would. He’s a dude, but I have to say, if someone asked me if I hurt myself trying to open a jar of jelly, I’d be pretty mortally offended, too. “Here.” I reach for him before I can tell myself it’s a bad idea. “It’s probably just locked up. Let me massage it. That might help make it feel better.”
“No, that really won’t—oh god.” My hand slides up his arm to his shoulder. I try and mentally remember where the worst of the scars were, but I can’t, so I just cup his big muscular shoulder blade in my palm and then slide my fingers over his muscles, looking for a knot. When I find something by pressing in and searching, I massage it using slow, even strokes. “Wow, that feels pretty good,” he groans. I watch what I’m doing, paying close attention. I can see a few of the scars sticking out from under his shirt sleeve, twisting like road lines on the map of his perfect skin.
He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, so I fully take that in for the first time. I was too fixated on his glorious, godlike face when I first walked in, but now I’m not so fixated on that anymore because I have a brand new part of his body to focus on. Yummy biceps, huge shoulders, cut muscles galore, and a tight tush in jeans. Jeans. I haven’t seen him wear those before.