Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
I swallow.
It wasn’t right then. We were two people, stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, circling each other for answers but finding only empty promises.
Now will be different.
My eyes water and I swipe at them, swallowing the massive lump in my throat.
It’s the scene, I tell myself. He made me so bare and raw yesterday that today I’m a mess. That’s got to be it.
The door opens, and he comes in, shaking off ice and snow, his cheeks and nose red. I go to him and take his coat, then hand him a cup of coffee.
“Thank you for doing that,” I tell him. “Marla will appreciate it. Come sit and have some breakfast?”
“No problem. Thanks, babe.” I ignore the way my cheeks flush.
“You always were old-fashioned,” I tell him. “You’d like it if I sat by the fire and knitted while you cleaned your gun, huh?”
He snorts. “I hate hunting, and you don’t knit.” Taking a long pull from his coffee mug, he sighs. “This is delicious.”
He doesn’t deny the old-fashioned bit, though. And it doesn’t bother me. I’d love sitting by him. Serving him. Being the woman he comes home to. I never could bear the thought of doing that the way my parents wanted me to, but somehow being his… it’s different. It feels right.
I realize with a start that I’m letting my mind get away ahead of me. What the hell am I thinking about?
“Maybe go sit down and I’ll bring this to you,” I suggest, pulling out a tray of warm muffins.
He heads to the back of the shop where circular tables wait for customers. Pulling out a chair, he folds himself into it, and my heart hammers in my chest and my mouth is dry, like we’re on a date or something. We’re not though.
But we are alone.
God.
This man has whipped me and punished me, when I was naked and vulnerable, and I’m worried about getting things just right?
With trembling hands, I place a blueberry muffin on a plate and head over to him. I slide the plate on the table in front of him.
“Your breakfast, sir,” I say, intending to make a joke of it, but the words make my cheeks flush and he doesn’t laugh.
“Thank you, Chandra. Now go get yourself something to eat.” He folds his hands in his lap and doesn’t touch the food on the plate, waiting for me to obey.
It’s the smallest of things, but it makes my belly warm. I missed this. God, I missed this, having someone care for me and make sure I take care of myself. I do the bare minimum now. I throw myself into my work and go hours, sometimes full days even, without eating. Then I grab whatever’s nearby without thought. I get so immersed in things, I don’t get enough sleep like I should. If someone asked me, I’d deny the fact that I need a keeper, but being with him again? It feels nice.
I grab a cranberry-orange muffin and make myself a cup of tea, my hands shaking with nerves. I need to steady them. I’m tired, though, I tell myself. It’s got to be the fatigue.
But it’s more than that.
Joining him, I place my plate down next to his, but before I can sit he’s standing and pulling out a chair for me. I give him a bashful smile.
“Thank you.”
God, this feels so right.
He sits back down and sips his coffee. “That’s some damn good coffee,” he says. “I don’t remember Marla stocking blueberry muffins. Her specialty is the lemon cake.”
“I made the muffins,” I tell him.
Folding back the wrapper, he takes a bite and his eyes go wide. “That’s delicious,” he says around a mouthful of crumbs.
“You always did love my baking.”
We fall quiet, eating our breakfast, but I only nibble. I’m too nervous to eat much, and my eyes are so heavy the lids feel like they’re weighted. I yawn again, cover my hand with my mouth, then take another sip of tea.
“Why are you so tired?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” I tell him. “I… well, let’s just say I was inspired.” I look away bashfully. I can’t meet his eyes.
“Good,” he says. “Well, good that you were inspired. Inspired to do what?”
“Write.”
“Then my evil plan worked.”
I smile. “Yup. And, excuse me, but I believe that was my evil plan.”
“It was your evil wish. I was the plan maker.”
I snort. “Okay, fair enough.”
Sobering, he asks, “Exactly what time did you get to bed?”
Uh oh.
I fold my muffin wrapper in quarters. “Umm…”
He was always such a stickler for these things. And why do I love that?
“Um isn’t a good enough answer.” His tone sharpens, folding his arms on his chest. “Tell me.”
“Well, I didn’t,” I finally respond. “Not really. I wrote all night and finally crashed for an hour or so?”