Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 149606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 499(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 499(@300wpm)
His hair is all ruffled up, making him look adorably goofy and sexy. Laughing, I try to comb it with my fingers. “I am a little hungry.”
“You stay here. I’m gonna run down to the kitchen and get us something to nibble on.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” I always feel a little spoiled having a man who’s a famous rock star doting on me.
He kisses my nose, then my forehead. “Nope. I don’t think I ever want you to leave this bed.”
He climbs out of bed and crosses the room, totally naked, to his new dresser.
“Did I tell you how much I love the furniture?” He pulls a drawer open. “You didn’t have to put all my stuff away for me. I would’ve done that.”
“I like doing things for you.”
My eyes travel all over his body as he pulls on a pair of gray sweats. Lord, the man is so crazy gorgeous. Every inch of him is smooth and hard as a rock. Long, wavy hair cascading over his shoulders like a shampoo commercial. My insides clench, dampening my thighs as I watch him stretch his arms over his head, remembering how it felt to have him moving inside me, staring into my eyes.
Turning back toward the bed, he catches me watching him and winks at me. “I’ll be right back, babe.” He points to Teddy on the floor and says to him playfully, “You stay outta my spot while I’m gone. I’m not sharing her today.”
While Asher’s downstairs, I freshen up in the bathroom and find my panties and T-shirt. Sporadic memories of the dream I had while napping earlier linger in my mind. Over the past month, I’ve had the same recurring dream, and it always leaves me feeling unsettled.
In the dream, someone, whom I cannot see, is trying to rip my face off.
Is that you, Ember? Are you trying to remind me you haven’t gone away?
I push thoughts of the dream out of my head when Asher comes back, carrying a wooden tray with lattes, toast with cinnamon butter and honey, and yogurt with granola and blueberries. My stomach growls as my eyes take in all the deliciousness.
“It’s kinda late for breakfast, but all this seemed good.”
“It’s perfect,” I reply when he sits on the bed next to me, placing the tray in front of us. All I had to eat last night were crackers that were in the apartment pantry. In addition to feeling hungry, I still feel exhausted from not sleeping last night.
“I have some questions,” Asher says in a curious tone after he takes a bite of his toast.
Wiping latte foam from my lip, I grin. “I had a feeling you would.”
“When did you decide you wanted to change parts of how you look? Was it sudden, or have you been thinking about it for a while?”
I mix my blueberries and granola into my yogurt as I try to remember when I first had the idea of plastic surgery. “I started thinking about it a few months ago after I read an article about subtle modifications. But I decided it was something I was definitely going to do when I was in Maine.”
“Does Katherine know?”
“We talked about it. She was a little nervous about me going through with it but still supportive.”
“Did you do it because of me?” His brows pinch together. “I hope you weren’t trying to be what you thought I wanted you to be.”
“No,” I say. But the answer isn’t that simple. “Not really. Maybe part of my reason was for you. Mostly the body changes—so I didn’t look so frail and sick. Remember Sydni made that comment about the coma diet? That really bothered me. I didn’t like how boney I looked.”
“Em, I hate that you felt you had to change yourself for me or because Sydni made a rude comment. I love you exactly how you looked. I was attracted to you in every way. I’d never want you to change.”
“I know that.” I do, without a doubt. “But I also know that you’ve been struggling. Not physically, but mentally, with shifting your thoughts and feelings for me from vegetable to wife.”
He pales. “Please don’t use that word. I hate it.”
“Hey,” I say softly, touching his bare arm. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. We have to be able to talk about this, right?”
“Of course.”
“I guess, for me, changing was part of moving forward, living this second chance I was given my way. The amnesia is one thing—I can’t change that. I hope someday it gets better, but it’s out of my control. But I can control what I do and how I look. I guess, in a way, I needed that. Some control to feel like this life is mine.”
“I just don’t want you to change because you think you have to, to make me, or anyone else, happy. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be how you used to be. I know I’ve made you feel that way, and I’m sorry. But you’re right—this is your life, and you deserve to love everything about it and make your own choices.”