Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I must’ve passed out.
A few seconds later, faint whimpers trail from across the hall. Flinging the covers off, I tiptoe to Lucia’s room in hopes I can make it before she wakes Fabian. The cries cease the instant I scoop her out of her crib. Making our way to the kitchen, I kiss her cheek before preparing a middle-of-the-night bottle and carrying her back to her room.
We situate in the corner rocking chair, her favorite blanket draped over us, and I rock her as she plays with a strand of my hair, twirling it around her chubby fingers as she eats. A few minutes go by in silence when the creak of the guest room door is followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.
A second later, Fabian’s distinct, muscled figure fills the doorway. Leaning against the jamb in low-slung gray sweats and a white V-neck shirt that glows in the dark against his natural bronze tan, he’s a sight for sore, tired eyes.
Dragging a hand through mussed hair, he exhales. “Everything okay?”
He obviously doesn’t realize how babies work …
Which is understandable.
“Yeah, of course,” I say. “Sorry if she woke you. She started sleeping through the night around three months, but every once in a while she regresses for a week or two. I think this time it’s the teething. Totally normal though.”
“You want me to feed her? You can go back to bed if you want.” There’s a sexy, gravelly quality to his voice, one that makes me feel some kind of way.
“No, it’s fine.”
“I can’t sleep. Might as well make myself useful if I’m up.”
Lucia’s eyes grow heavy and the bottle is almost empty. I place it on the little table beside me and angle her over my shoulder, patting her back until I get a couple of burps.
“We’re about done here anyway,” I whisper before placing her back in her bed. When I’m finished, I meet him in the hall, pulling Lucia’s door closed. “You can’t sleep?”
He combs his fingers through his hair, eyes locked on mine in the dark as his musky, leathery, woodsy scent invades my lungs. It’s only now that I realize how close we’re standing.
“You want something to help?” I ask. “I have Tylenol PM … Benadryl … melatonin …”
Before he has a chance to answer, I’m shuffling to the kitchen and raiding my meticulously organized medicine cabinet.
“I was thinking,” he says as he watches me with a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. “If you don’t mind, maybe I could replace that mattress for you.”
Stopping in my tracks, I ponder my response. If I decline his offer, he’ll be forced to sleep on that cheap discount store mattress for the next four weeks. If I accept his offer, he’ll probably buy something that costs twenty grand and then I’ll feel guilty about it every time I walk by.
“My bed is nicer,” I say. A top of the line hybrid, it was a gift to myself when I first bought this place. It’s hardly the sort of thing you’d find at a five-star hotel, but it’s leaps and bounds nicer than the one in the guest room.
Cocking his jaw, he smirks. “Is that an invitation, Rossi?”
“What? No. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, if you wanted to trade. You can take my room, and I’ll take the guest room.” Lifting a red and blue bottle of Tylenol PM, I give it a rattle and attempt to change the subject. “This stuff will knock you out in thirty minutes flat.”
“Got anything stronger?”
“I might have some Ambien? Though I’m pretty sure it’s expired …” I return to the medicine cabinet, rising on my toes as I work my way to the A section.
“What about whiskey? You have anything like that?” he asks.
“Actually.” Abandoning my post, I head to the cabinet above the fridge. “My neighbor, Dan, left some scotch here a few months ago.”
“Perfect.”
I grab the scotch and a small glass and pour a couple of fingers for Fabian. Dan’s going to be tickled when I tell him about this, I’m sure.
“Where’s yours?” he asks.
“I’ve got to get up in four hours …”
“Never been a fan of drinking alone,” he says. “Plus, I’ll be up before you anyway. Meeting my coach at seven.” Helping himself to the cupboard, he grabs an identical glass and pours me a smaller portion.
“This is a sipping drink,” I say.
“It is.” He nods. “But you can shoot it if you’re feeling brave.”
“It’s past three AM, I’m feeling exhausted,” I say. “And I just want to go back to bed.”
“Then bottoms up.” He clinks his glass against mine and shoots it without so much as a flinch, blink, or balk.
Crazy, brave, or a little of both?
“Fine.” I wince in anticipation, lift the amber liquid to my lips, and toss back what can only be described as fiery gasoline. My stomach recoils, responding with a flash of nausea that quickly subsides—thank goodness.