Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
She giggles. “You have to do one thing first.”
“Name it.”
Her towel falls slowly to the floor, revealing her naked body inch by beautiful inch.
My cock presses against the towel at my waist, creating a tent between my legs.
She goes to her bed and crawls across the mattress. Lying on her back with her knees bent, she motions for me to follow.
The look in her eyes is different than I’ve ever seen it—more vulnerable and less guarded. Maybe I’ve gotten through to her. Perhaps she understands what I’ve been trying to show her.
If not, I’ll keep trying. I’ll never give up.
I drop my towel and climb onto the bed, moving so I’m hovering over her.
Her eyes sparkle as she strokes my jawline. “Gentle, please.”
I should stop and get a condom. I should use my fucking head. But her request is my demand. I’ll never tell her no. I’ll never make her wait.
My cock sinks into her nice and slow, growing harder as her soft moans dance between us.
This feels a whole lot like making love.
And it feels exactly right.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Carys
Thunder shakes the house as rain pelts the glass. Tree limbs sway outside Gannon’s bedroom window. It’s been a day of storms across Tennessee.
It’s the perfect day to stay in bed and read.
I set Gannon’s copy of Love Hurts next to me, my heart breaking over Deacon and Frankie’s story. It’s so beautiful, so tragic, and so utterly intoxicating. It’s the kind of love every girl dreams about finding for herself.
My gaze flutters to the doorway.
The kind of love that I hope I’ve found for myself.
“Do you want a drink?” Gannon shouts from downstairs.
“No. I’m good.”
“I’ll be up in a minute. Just going to fire off a couple more emails.”
“I’m cuddled up in here with your book. Take your time.”
His footsteps fall fainter until they’re no longer audible.
My stomach churns from the grilled cheese Gannon made me a few hours ago. Most of my clients are sick with influenza, and one apparently shared it with me. Gannon acts like I’m coming down with something life-threatening and has babied me since I got home from work yesterday. He was supposed to go into the office for a Saturday teleconference this morning, but called it off to stay home with me.
He's been in super protective mode since the falling out at Kent’s party, going out of his way to ensure I’m pampered. I’m starting to wonder if he’ll ever go back to normal Gannon protective mode.
If not, I’m not mad about it.
I am mad that Aurora reached out to me the next day and apologized for Kent’s behavior. His behavior had no bearing on her, and it’s not her responsibility to make excuses for her husband’s assholery. I didn’t respond because the only response I could come up with was that good women need to stop making excuses for bad men. But that wouldn’t have helped anything, and I really just need this to be behind me.
Because there’s so much goodness ahead.
My phone buzzes repeatedly from somewhere under the pillows. By the time I find it, it’s stopped. Tate’s name is on the screen with a list of texts, none of which I have the strength to read … or mediate. When he sends this many messages at once, there are photos involved.
“Not now, Tate,” I say, yawning. “Find someone else to judge your shirtless pictures. I’m retired.”
Before I put my phone down, I notice that a handful of new emails have hit my inbox.
“Let’s see what this is about,” I say, opening the app. “Maybe my plant order has shipped for Gannon’s office.”
I scroll through the emails, most of them junk and none of them about my order. I’m about to close out of the app when I notice two messages at the bottom of the list. One is from the life insurance company, and the other from the laboratory.
“Oh,” I say, sitting up. “Let’s see what this says.”
I choose the company’s email first, hoping it condenses the results. Scanning a list of terms I don’t understand to decide whether it’s within range sounds like a headache—especially when it’ll wind up with me online and convinced that I have some rare form of cancer or Ebola.
“There we go,” I say, clicking the link. A letter populates and it is addressed to me.
MS JOHNSON, your application requires some additional information. Please choose START to begin your Online Personal History Interview.
“Okay,” I say, confused. “I filled everything out. What did I forget?”
I click the start button, as requested. It prompts me to enter the last four digits of my social security number, so I do that. Finally, a screen loads.
MS JOHNSON,
Our records indicate that you did not disclose a pregnancy when applying for life insurance. This is considered a non-disclosure and, while pregnancy alone cannot disqualify you from coverage, it is a health condition that needs to be reported to the insurance company. Please take the following survey to provide additional information within 10 days.