Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Ella snickers and pulls away, glancing over her shoulder. “It would be shocking to her. And until we know what we are or where we’re going, she should probably be kept in the dark. I don’t want her getting her hopes up.”
“Makes sense,” I utter in a low voice before moving to the island. I glance back to see Lucy on her back, the puppy trying to climb up. “So, no touching while in her presence. Check.”
Ella snorts, then hands me a beer. She has one in hand, and we tap bottles. “Great job on the whole dog thing, Jim.”
“Back at you, hot stuff,” I reply and then immediately, I snap my head Lucy’s way to see if she heard that.
Too absorbed in the puppy, she’s paying us no mind.
Smirking, Ella moves to the oven, where she bends to take a peek through the window. Yes, I stare at her ass as she does so, even though it’s mostly covered. She’s wearing a pair of leggings with a slouchy t-shirt, and her feet are bare. While she can rock a business suit or a ball gown, this is how I prefer her. Just naturally Ella.
“It’s done,” she announces, opening the oven to pull the huge pan of baked ziti out.
“Need help with that?” I ask, noting it looks like it probably weighs fifty pounds.
Twisting, she grins. “Sure. I made a double batch to send you home with some leftovers.”
And yeah… that gets me. That she not only made my favorite meal, but she’s also sending me home with leftovers. I pop off the stool, round the island, and take the two potholders she’s holding out to me.
After I carefully lift the bubbling, cheesy pan from the oven—which is fucking heavy, so I’m glad I’m getting it out for her—Ella shuts the oven door. I set it down on the two trivets she’s placed on the counter.
Bending over, I inhale the scent deeply. Ella is neither Italian nor someone who enjoys cooking elaborate meals, but this is something she excelled at early in our marriage. I’m grateful she continues to make it for me. “Smells delicious.”
Ella bumps her hip against me. “Well… you have been pretty attentive and amazing the last few days, so…”
I bump her hip back before sliding my hand around her waist. Bending my head, I murmur, “Admit it… it’s for the orgasms I gave you last night.”
She chuckles with a sly smile. “Maybe.”
Leaning in closer, I touch my temple on the top of her head, lowering to a complete whisper. “I’ll give you orgasms any day you want, Ella. All you have to do is ask.”
“You know I will,” she teases.
“What’s going on?” Lucy says from behind us.
Ella and I jump apart as if we’d been electrocuted by each other. We spin to see Lucy standing there, Brody in her arms. She must have worn him out as he’s still, watching us curiously.
Lucy’s expression, on the other hand, is condemning and suspicious.
“Nothing’s going on,” Ella says, her voice raised in a tone that borders on hysterical.
It’s adorable. “Your mom and I were just talking,” I calmly explain.
“With your arm around her waist and whispering,” Lucy challenges. “Looks more like flirting to me.”
“Are you mad about it?” I challenge back. Lucy was upset when we separated, and she struggled with it for a long time.
Her brows knit together. “Just confused.”
Ella’s expression indicates she has no clue what to say. I can’t say I’m any more well equipped, but I’m going to take this one.
Shooting a pointed look at Ella, I ask, “Where did you put all the dog supplies you bought? Lucy and I will pull them out while the ziti is cooling.”
Ella jerks to the right, relief evident in her eyes. “In the garage.”
“Okay,” I say, moving that way. “Come on, Lucy. Help your dad out.”
She heaves a protesting sigh, but she follows me into the garage, carrying Brody with her.
I immediately spot the stack of supplies, which includes a wire kennel, similar to mine, that the puppy will be crated in at night or when we’re away, as well as bowls, a soft dog bed, food, and toys.
Picking the kennel up, I tell my daughter, “The puppy has to be crated if we can’t keep our eye on him. He’ll also sleep in here at night.”
“But I want him to sleep with me,” Lucy complains.
“These are the organization’s rules, not mine,” I reply, carrying the kennel toward the door that leads back into the house.
Lucy turns to precede me into the house, but I stop her. “Hold up.”
When she pivots to face me her expression is guarded. “You asked about your mom and me. What do you want to know?”
“Were you two flirting with each other just now?” she demands.
I can’t believe I get a little warm in the face at such a question, but I nod.