Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
He sighed in exhaustion, or maybe it was envy. Then again, I could be going crazy. “At least you were home.”
And I was murdering him in his sleep—or at least holding a pillow over his face in a threatening manner until he understood the threat. It didn’t matter that he had at least forty pounds of muscle on me. I was scrappy and pissed and could easily sleep for a year straight.
He took another step.
“No, wait—”
Of course he didn’t listen, which meant the minute his foot hit the mystery substance, his leg went one way and he went another.
Arms flailing, he slipped into the water and slime, then fell with a thump onto his ass. His briefcase went flying out of his hand. Papers went flying out of his briefcase, scattering like snow. And because I’m the unluckiest person in the world, that same briefcase hit the remaining Solo cups on the counter as well as the last flour bowl, sending it over his head with a whoosh and a final crack of doom as it hit the floor.
I hurried over without thinking. “Are you OK? I was trying to warn you and—”
I went tumbling onto his lap, butt pointing at his chin, hands bracing his thighs like I was ready to pounce. I quickly flipped around but still somehow ended up straddling him. Our heads nearly knocked as he wiped his face and glared.
“S-sorry.”
“Slime?” He tilted his head like he was curious, which made me pause; he didn’t have a curious bone in his body.
“I was a scientist in another life,” I offered lamely, trying to control my breathing. Did he have to be so attractive? So annoying? So perfect?
Lately things had been strained between us, with this weird heaviness that spoke of things neither of us was admitting to, especially after both kids got the flu and ended up in one giant bed between us, barricading them in as if we were physically trying to protect them from the world—that was our job now, right?
“Purple glitter, though? Really?”
At least he wasn’t yelling. Then again, he never raised his voice. Sometimes I wished he would. Sometimes I wished he’d just react, one time in his life. And I wished that he would mourn.
He hadn’t cried yet or broken down.
The funeral had been a blur, though—a blur I refused to focus on since he was still giving me a strange look I couldn’t decipher. The flour made him look ridiculous but more approachable.
“What?” I didn’t move.
“Your eyes.” He licked his lips as pieces of flour fell between our bodies. “I forgot how blue they are up close.”
I fought hard not to stare down at his plump, wet lip, at the way his tongue had snuck out.
His lips were beautiful, full, a complete masterpiece of masculine beauty paired with a harshness that almost warned mere mortals to look away.
Something about the intense closeness broke me, made me want to get closer, made me need his comfort more than my next breath. I leaned in, expecting him to back away like he always did or make an excuse or remind me of his vow to never touch me for as long as we both shall live.
But this time, he cradled the sides of my face with wet hands.
This time, our foreheads touched on a rough exhalation.
This time, Rip Edison leaned forward and pressed a painfully slow kiss to my lips.
My breath caught as he deepened the kiss, tasting me like I was a chocolate sample he wanted to devour, and then as soon as I wrapped my arms around his neck the sound of a small cry filled the air.
We quickly broke apart.
“Not it!” we declared in unison.
EIGHTEEN
Colby
Dinner was a bit tense as I attempted to make something that resembled actual food without burning the house down. I was still thinking about the kiss, about what all these feelings and moments between us meant. The only answer I’d landed on was that all this thinking was not improving my cooking skills. I’d been trying my ass off, but I still trusted DoorDash more than my own cooking, and by the looks on the kids’ faces, so did they. I’d spent my adult life going to fancy restaurants, writing about the food, the resort or hotel experience, the nightlife, rooms, amenities. My job was to travel and comment on all of it, so in that time, I’d never had the desire to cook since my job was to literally eat, drink, and be merry before lying down in a fluffy clean bed with chocolate on my pillow.
I sighed. That was nice. Or had been nice.
And now this. I looked down at the chicken that the kids were attempting to chew.
It was kind of dry.
The potatoes needed ketchup.
And the green beans were… well, green beans.