Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
But it wasn’t all woo woo—science was on my side too. Biology was a thing. And medical intervention. I’d followed all the instructions, used the predictor kit, and by all indications the timing was right.
Still, I was nervous. Nervous . . . and excited.
Like, beyond excited.
It had been ten days since I’d felt Enzo’s hands on me, felt his body over mine, felt that deep, sharp twinge of pain before it melted into pleasure. I knew he was anxious too—for heaven’s sake, he’d pestered me for sex almost every night—but I’d stayed firm in my resolve not to give in. If I could resist him, or at least sex with him, then I was still on safe ground. It didn’t matter that my feelings for him were growing stronger and deeper each day, as long as I was still in control. Being able to say no to sex that wasn’t for procreational purposes made me feel like those walls around my heart were still standing.
Actually, I’d sort of hoped he might act a little distant while we weren’t having sex, or at least give my feelings a chance to ebb. But if I’d thought he wouldn’t be interested in hanging out with me without the lure of an orgasm at the end of the night, I’d been totally wrong. He came home for dinner every evening. He brought groceries or takeout or offered to cook. If we watched TV, he let me choose what we watched, and he didn’t complain—much—if I chose something girly and romantic. One night he even gave me a foot massage while we watched a movie.
He came with me to visit Grandma Vinnie at the nursing home, where we listened to her tell stories about my great-grandparents, the bootleggers, and about growing up on Detroit’s east side. We looked at old photo albums and marveled at the resemblance between my great-grandmother and me. Grandma Vinnie even thought the name Enzo DiFiore, which was Enzo’s great-grandfather’s name, sounded familiar to her. We laughed and wondered if maybe they’d known each other after all.
He also went over to my condo and fixed the garbage disposal after my brother JJ broke it somehow. He rescued me when I got a flat tire on the highway, rushing right out to change it himself, instead of making me call for service. And at night, he insisted I still sleep in his bed.
How on earth was I supposed to keep my feelings neutral?
But I couldn’t worry about that now. I told myself those warm, fuzzy feelings would come in handy when it was time to split up because it meant we’d be able to treat each other with kindness and respect. We wouldn’t fight over stupid things. We’d never say cruel things about one another in front of other people—especially our child. And we wouldn’t make our friends choose between us. Everything would be fine.
And tonight, I would be his.
I got out of the tub, dried off and rubbed lavender-scented lotion into my skin. I took my hair down, brushed my teeth, and even put on my diamond earrings—I hoped they would be my good luck charms. Leaving my bedside lamp on, I took off my glasses and slipped naked beneath the sheets, waiting for Enzo to come upstairs.
Five minutes went by.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Outside, the storm got worse, the rain coming down harder and the wind whistling against the glass. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The power flickered.
I was about to throw on a robe and go see what was taking Enzo so long when the power went out completely. I waited a moment for it to come back on, and when it didn’t, I sat up and called out. “Enzo?”
No answer. But I heard someone coming up the stairs.
“Enzo?” I called, my voice a little shivery this time.
Then he appeared in the bedroom doorway, carrying a candle in his hands—and wearing nothing but a black, floor-length cape with the collar turned up. “Enzo is not here,” he said in a dramatic accent, something between Dracula and Ricky Ricardo. The fangs he wore made it difficult to tell.
I burst out laughing. “And you are?”
“I am Edward Mullins, of course.” He set the candle on the dresser.
“You mean Edward Cullen?”
“Yes, sorry. I have been in a deep slumber for so long, I forgot my last name. But when I smelled your blood, I grew very thirsty.”
“You can smell my blood, huh?”
“But of course.”
“That’s—that’s quite an outfit you’ve got on there, Edward.”
“Do you like it?” He brought one side of his cape across the lower part of his face. “I wasn’t sure if capes were still in fashion.” Then he swung it open with a flourish. “Or do you mean this?”
I let my eyes sweep over his naked body. “I like it all.”
“Good.” He threw the covers off me, exposing my bare skin. Then he growled. “I have not seen such beauty in centuries. I must have you or die.”