Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Never, even when we were young and, I thought, in love, had Preston ever bought me flowers. When Abby was born, I had looked around the room, seeing the other women being given gifts by their husbands or partners. Preston had walked in, stared down at the sweet face of our daughter, and muttered that he would have preferred a boy. Then he’d set down the bag he’d forgotten earlier, informed me he had an important meeting to go to, and left.
He did the same the day he brought me home, leaving me alone with a newborn baby, zero clues on what to do, and telling me he’d be late for dinner.
Given I’d had a difficult birth, I told him I wouldn’t be cooking. His response had said it all.
“Don’t think you can milk this baby thing forever.”
I knew then my marriage was over. But it had taken me years to get away.
I drifted toward the flowers, sitting in front of them, tracing the edge of the petals with my finger.
John Elliott.
He was the exact opposite of Preston. Outwardly grumpy, inside a marshmallow. Preston was charming—he said and did all the right things, but inside, he was rotting like an apple that fell from the tree.
John was kind and loving. Sexy in a rough, masculine way. Preston looked like he stepped off a runway, but when you glanced at his eyes, you knew he was empty inside.
I suppressed a shiver, remembering his cold gaze.
John was open and honest with his feelings—especially when he cared for you.
And in bed, he was giving, sexy, and loving. Rough and gentle at the same time. I felt safe with him. I couldn’t question his desire. It was evident in his words and on his face, never mind the way he showed me with his body. Simply thinking of how many times he’d brought me to orgasm last night made me blush. Preston had always been more concerned with his pleasure and not mine, and, more times than not, I had none. With John, that was not the case.
I wasn’t sure what made me kiss him the way I did in front of everybody. He had looked so unsure suddenly, as if bringing me flowers had displeased me, when it was the opposite. I was thrilled. Touched. And I had to kiss him to show him.
And I hadn’t liked the way Mary Jones was eyeing him from the corner. As if he was a prize hunk of beef.
Which he was.
But he was my prize hunk of beef, and I needed her, and everyone else, to know that.
Where the possessiveness had appeared from, I had no idea, but one thing I knew for sure—John hadn’t objected to it at all. He’d seemed surprised and delighted by my actions.
I looked at the mirror lining the back wall, studying my reflection. I looked different. Tired, yes, but relaxed. Happy. The frown lines I was used to seeing, the anxiety I carried all the time, were absent.
And I knew it was mostly thanks to the gruff, rough teddy bear of a man who gave me these flowers.
I slipped off the stool and headed to the kitchen. I knew exactly how to thank him.
JOHN
I walked into Quinn’s place, using the back door. It felt oddly right to stride into her house without knocking, instead simply calling for her.
“Quinn—I’m here!”
Fast little feet headed my way, and I felt my smile getting wide. Abby raced around the corner, her dark hair flying behind her. “Farmer John!”
I bent and scooped her up in my arms, kissing her cheek. She grabbed my face, squeezing my cheeks tightly. “Momma said you were coming.”
“Here I am,” I said in a high voice. “But my face is trapped.”
She let out a long string of girlish giggles, releasing her hands. “That’s me doing that!”
“Wow. That’s a relief.”
I set her down as Quinn appeared. She was wearing her denim overalls, and a pale-yellow T-shirt. Bright-pink toenails glinted in the light as her bare feet hit the hardwood floor.
“Hi,” she said, looking almost shy.
I leaned down, looping an arm around her waist and tugging her close. I dropped a fast kiss to her lips. “Hi, yourself.” I inhaled deeply. “Something smells incredible.” I sniffed again. “Is that peach cobbler I smell?”
She grinned. “A birdie named Laura might have mentioned it’s your favorite.”
I groaned. “Woman, you have no idea.”
“It’s ginormous,” Abby crowed. “Momma said you eat like a horse!”
“Oh, um,” Quinn stammered. “I mean—”
I laughed, burying my face into her neck. “I do like to eat delicious things.” I grazed my mouth over her ear. “You were the most delicious thing until now. But the smell of your cobbler is giving that memory a run for its money.”
She blinked, stepping back. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to have a refresher, then, won’t you?”