Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
But he just drops his hands.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe for you it doesn’t.”
“I’ll handle it, Junie. I don’t want to spoil the evening.”
I glance at the torte I made, the cardinal now a smeared red mockery of my feelings plastered on a cake I don’t even truly know if he wants.
“Too late,” I say, uncurling and brushing past him to the stairs. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
“Junie, wait.”
A hard lump rises up my throat.
When it sticks, I know I’m going to cry like the shameless wreck I am. So I choke it back down and glare at him.
“What the hell do you want from me, Dex? I’m not cut out for all this guessing.”
“When did I say it was you?” He stops in front of me. He’s so tall, so broad, so much of everything I want and yet now it hurts to even look at him. “I never said that.”
“No, but look at this.” The painful lump is breaking through like poison, burning my whole face. “Look at us. You’ve got your secrets, and you won’t tell me, will you? You don’t trust me.”
His eyes darken like a restless ocean, danger flaring in their depths.
“Is this because of that asshole who broke your heart? Listen, if it’s that, I—”
“This is because of you,” I interrupt. “Maybe Liam hinted I wasn’t fit for big money and lofty reputations, and I should’ve listened. But don’t you see? It’s playing out the same way. I’m still just Juniper Winkley, a shadow to people smarter and better than me, and you’re—”
“Shit, Juniper. Stop.”
The roughness in his voice makes me freeze, breathless and broken.
Dex rakes a hand through his hair and reaches out to me. This time, I’m locked in place by that stupid desire for reassurance. To hold on to whatever we have left.
His hands are so warm against my skin when he takes my arms.
“Listen to me. You’ll never be just Juniper Winkley.”
“I want to believe you,” I force out.
He pulls me closer so I’m looking up into his face, his hands tracing the line of my jaw. A crease deepens between his eyebrows and he wipes away a tear that slips out from my eye.
“Don’t you get it?” he says, his voice pure smolder. “You’re too fucking good for this.”
Before I have time to think about what he means by this, he’s kissing me.
His lips are hard, claiming and desperate, but his hands are soft.
The tightness in my chest unravels a little.
We haven’t resolved anything, no, but I can still breathe when I’m with him. And I’m too afraid of what might happen if I walk away now.
So I obey, listening to his warmth and the pressure of his grip and let myself forget in the hopes he’ll never just be another sad memory.
The rest of the week passes with the same heavy angst that runs under everything like a quiet pulse.
We finish the rest of the chocolate torte between our jobs, passing the evenings together again.
On the surface, it’s normal.
I don’t press him for hard answers he isn’t willing to give.
Still, it feels like time is running away with us, and there’s a new uncertainty opening up that feels like an ever-expanding pit.
If we’re not doing this to fool Haute anymore, then why?
I tell myself it’s okay.
It takes time for two lives to mesh, especially when we’re both so busy. He’s in meetings with his brothers and managing a real estate empire and I’m tied down at the bakery, working the longest hours ever.
Even if that means we’re talking less, what does it matter?
He still kisses me the same as before. More passionately, even.
Like he’s trying to convey whole emotions with his body that aren’t fit for words.
Then the weekend arrives.
I wake up alone, just like I have almost every morning this week. I wander downstairs to feed Catness and find him coming up from the basement gym.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, distracted as he glances at his phone. “You probably don’t want to kiss me right now. Morning breath.”
“You’re heading into the office again?” I fold my arms.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“…but it’s Saturday.”
He looks up at me with a frown. He’s been doing that more and it’s slowly killing me, wishing I knew why.
Maybe I’m not so interesting anymore.
I’m certainly not his equal in business, in life, in anything.
I’m not what he wants and he’s figured it out.
Only, he doesn’t say that.
He just raises an eyebrow and says, “If I’m not mistaken, you work a lot of Saturdays yourself.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I don’t need this right now.”
“Dex, stay.” It’s more of a whisper, a plea, and he freezes on his way back up. “Don’t go to work. Just for today.”
“I wish I had the option. This can’t wait and it’s just my reality, Junie,” he says slowly, turning and heading upstairs.