Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Carter finishes, grabs the hair tie Mac is holding, and ends his braid. Before he can even survey his work, he peers at mine. “Mmm. Nice job, Rachel,” he says, no teasing, no joking, just…praise.
My stomach flips—then cartwheels when he turns his face to me, his warm brown eyes locking with mine. “You’re good at that,” he says.
What is wrong with me? Do I have a compliment my hair braiding kink?
“Let me see how you did,” Mac says.
“There’s a mirror in my bedroom,” I say, pointing.
The tiny human pops up from the floor, grabs her phone, and scampers to the bedroom.
And Carter comes in for a kiss.
Oh.
Wow.
That’s surprising.
And nice.
I think I hum against his lips.
Yes, that’s definitely a hum. His kiss is soft. Just lips. No tongue. No hands in my hair, or on my face. The only parts of us touching at all are our lips in the barest brush, the sweetest caress.
But somehow, it’s making me want him even more than his heated possessive kisses do, than his filthy words, than his dirty stares.
This kiss is turning me inside out with its deceptive innocence.
When Mac’s footsteps signal her return, Carter pulls away, saying nothing, just giving me a wolfish grin.
I’m practically a puddle. He went from a soft caress of a kiss to a filthy smile like that. Just take me now.
“I have a winner,” Mac announces when she returns to the living room. “Both of you.”
“Whoa,” Carter says, his eyes widening. “A tie?”
“Ties are bad in football but sometimes okay in life,” Mac says, waggling her phone. “That’s what my daddy says. Oh! He’s on his way. He just texted me.”
That’s good. Because I need to get Carter alone very, very soon.
Fifteen minutes later, Mac is rushing to the door I just opened. “Daddy, I beat Carter in golf, and Rachel made me cake, and Carter and I finished a puzzle in one hour and six minutes, and they both braided my hair.”
“You’ve had a full day,” he says.
She wraps her arms around him in a waist hug, and he scoops her up into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Those are some seriously impressive braids. Looks like my wide receiver might be trying to show me up,” he says dryly.
Carter points his thumb at me. “No, sir. It was all her doing. Rachel is awesome at braids.”
Mac tosses her head back, laughing. “Stop. You’re good at hair. You said you were good at hair. Don’t backtrack now,” she says, and if that isn’t a Wilder-ism, I don’t know what is. This kid is full of Daddy’s words of wisdom.
Wilder sets her down then turns to me, a sincere look in his eyes. “I can’t thank you enough,” he says, then to Carter, he adds, “I am truly grateful.”
“We had a good time, Mr. Blaine,” Carter says.
“Wilder.”
Carter smiles, but his eyes say Wilder isn’t winning this one. “Yes, Mr. Blaine.”
I laugh, then take the man up on his offer. “You’ve got a great kid, Wilder. I hope your meeting went well.”
“It was fantastic. Is there anything I can do for the two of you?” he asks, so earnestly wanting to repay us.
He truly doesn’t need to, but how many times does a billionaire think he owes you a favor? Impulsively, I say, “Well, next time Carter helps win the Big Game, maybe my friend Fable can design your rings. She’s a jewelry designer.”
He smiles, looking pleased that I took him up on it. I bet he likes it when people operate in his sphere of understanding—trading favors for favors, deals for deals. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.
With another thank you, he turns to go, holding hands with Mac.
“Daddy, I learned to trash talk today,” she says proudly.
I cringe. Oh shoot. Did all our goodwill just go down the drain?
“Is that so, sweetie?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty good at it too,” she says.
I love this kid’s confidence.
“Of course you are. You’re pretty good at everything you do. Just remember—time and place.”
“Time and place,” she repeats, like it’s their mantra, as they head down the stairs.
Leaving them to their daddy-daughter time at last, I push my door closed, then turn to Carter.
I’m ready for my alone time. Pretty sure he is, too, from the way the heat flares in his eyes.
“Your turn,” he says, tipping his head toward the couch. “Time and place and all.”
I swallow past the dry patch in my throat, then obey by walking to the couch with a pulse beating between my thighs.
I sit on the floor in front of it. He sits on the couch behind me and reaches for the hairbrush, wordlessly runs it through my hair. Closing my eyes, I try to sink back into the attention, to indulge in his caring touch.
But I’m not used to someone touching me with such focus and intention. I need to fill the silence so it doesn’t overwhelm me. I return to something that stood out when Mac asked Carter about ADHD. “Quinn didn’t think it was real?”