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)
Blair gasped and looked at Cheyenne. “She sounds just like you.”
“Huh?” I glanced back and forth between them.
“I said that too, about Cole.” Cheyenne smiled knowingly. “That he was never going to love me.”
“Oh.” I tilted my head this way and that. “Well, that was a different situation. You guys had a different history. Different circumstances.”
“So did Griffin and I,” said Blair. “There isn’t one path that leads to love, Bianca. All we’re saying is that we don’t think you should completely close yourself off to the idea of finding something real with Enzo. It could happen, even though neither of you expects it.”
“Neither of us wants it,” I insisted, growing a little agitated. I wasn’t them, and they weren’t me. Why did I have to explain this again? “We’re in this for something else entirely. And because I’m a mature, self-aware woman who has learned from her mistakes, I’m being one hundred percent careful this time not to get sucked into the fantasy. Yes, we’re married. But it’s just a piece of paper for us. Yes, the sex is great. But it’s just sex. Yes, Enzo is hot and funny and maybe slightly less irksome these days. But I’m on a mission, and I know what it is—and what it’s not.”
Blair sighed dramatically and looked at Cheyenne. “We can’t have nice things, Chey.”
Cheyenne shook her head. “Nope, we sure can’t.”
“You guys are ridiculous,” I said, laughing as I rose to my feet. “And I’m leaving before you get any more carried away. Enzo and I are not a love story. Period.”
Friday afternoon, I texted Enzo while we were both still at work.
Me: Anniversary dinner tonight? I’ll cook.
Enzo: Sounds good. Meatball subs?
I laughed at the row of kissy-face emojis that followed.
Me: Again?
Enzo: I’m a simple man.
Me: Home by six?
Enzo: I’m at a site this afternoon but I should be able to make that happen.
Me: See you then.
I left work a little early, hit the grocery store on the way home, and had everything prepped by five-thirty. Then I went upstairs, took off every stitch of clothing, and put on the apron. I’d bought it earlier this week—it was a vintage style, red and frilly with little cherries on the skirt. After tying the bow in the back, I put on my highest heels, added some perfume and red lipstick, and went back downstairs.
In the kitchen, I put on some Frank Sinatra, poured two glasses of wine, and turned the oven on.
At about twenty after six, I heard his key in the lock. The door swung open, and I quickly turned to face the oven, giving him a view of my naked backside beneath the apron’s perky bow.
The door closed, and I heard a few footsteps before they stopped suddenly. “Jesus Christ.”
I peeked at him over one shoulder—he was staring at me and clutching his chest with one hand. In the other, he held a bouquet of white roses.
“Am I dead?” he asked, his eyes wide. “Is this heaven? Because this is exactly what I imagine it looks like and sounds like and smells like.”
I scowled at him. “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry. We’re behind on this project, and I had to make sure the tile guys didn’t fuck off and leave before the job was done. Then I stopped at the florist.” He set the roses on the counter.
I pouted for show, even as my heart fluttered that he’d brought me flowers again. “You chose the tile guys over me?”
“No one would choose the tile guys over you.” He came closer, his eyes dark and hungry.
I scooted around the island, putting it between us. “You said you’d be home at six o’clock. It’s six twenty.”
He followed me. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“I don’t know if I’m interested anymore.” I kept backing around the island, Enzo in slow but steady pursuit.
“No?” He pulled off his black, collared Moretti & Sons work shirt, taking his T-shirt with it. “How about now?”
My insides tightened at the sight of his bare chest and abs. But I sniffed. “Meh.”
“Meh?” His eyebrows peaked as he tossed the shirts to the kitchen floor. “Last night you said my body looked like it was sculpted by Michelangelo. But tonight it’s meh?”
Giggling, I moved a little quicker to keep him from grabbing me. “Last night you weren’t late for our anniversary dinner.”
“I said I was sorry. I brought you roses. Can’t you forgive me?”
“No. Because then you’ll think it’s okay to be late all the time. In order to teach you a lesson, I think I should—”
He lunged for me, and I squealed, ducking his reach and racing around the island into the living room.
Enzo chased me, hurtling over the couch to beat me to the stairway, which he blocked.
“No fair,” I said, huffing and puffing. “I’m in heels. You’re in boots, you can run faster.”