Total pages in book: 225
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
“I don’t want champagne,” I snap with irritation. “There’s nothing to celebrate.”
He looks amused at what he must be categorizing as my over-reaction.
“I want champagne,” he says. “I want to toast a celebration of buying this house for you. Of you making me a sandwich for the first time. Of the many wonderful things to come, Chloe.”
He pulls the champagne out of the bucket, wraps the bottle in a waiting tea towel and twists the metal cage, pops it, and pours it into two waiting champagne flutes.
I slice the turkey sandwiches in half.
He holds his glass up and looks at the second glass that he poured as if I’m about to lift it.
“Cheers.”
“I’m not cheers’ing you,” I deny bitchily. “ And I only offered you a sandwich out of reflex.”
He sips his champagne as I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and tuck it under my arm as I walk both plates the few paces to the other side of the island where there are two stools. I climb up on one.
He brings over the two glasses of champagne and sits beside me, setting one in front of me.
“Take a sip, Chloe. Just one. Please? Isn’t it rude not to?” He chucks me under the chin playfully, then taps my nose with his thumb.
I swat his hand away.
“One sip. Please?”
He holds out the glass.
Something in the bottom of the glass catches my eye and panic spikes. I refuse to wait for the details of what it is to emerge through the bubbly haze. My eyes bounce to his face instead.
He’s smiling. Waiting.
My gaze narrows.
No. I am not doing this right now. He is not going to propose to me. No.
I studiously avoid looking at it. But we both know I know what’s in it. There’s a motherfucking diamond ring in that glass.
“You’re so fucking cute when you’re angry at me for doing things for you,” he quips.
I lift half of my sandwich and take a bite.
Derek sets the glass down, not even trying to hide the smirk on his face. He knows I saw it, knows I’m pretending I didn’t. He lifts one half of his sandwich and takes a bite. I watch his face light up as he chews, then swallows, saying, “Mm. That’s delicious. Thank you, baby.” He leans over and kisses me on the lips, startling me.
I’m taking my second bite when he says, “Gonna sip your champagne?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, so we’re gonna play this game, are we? I have a few games up my sleeve, too. I think maybe after we finish our sandwiches it’ll be time to play one of them.”
Ignoring the belly dip the threat gives me, I bitchily chomp off a large bite of my sandwich.
I eat while pretending there’s no sexual energy in the room. Pretending not to notice how he watches me as he eats beside me. Doing my best, too, to not be affected by where I am. In this house. This house I thought I’d never, ever set foot in.
I’m ignoring that he’s beside me in that sexy suit, chin resting on his palm as he leans on an elbow, gazing at me like I’m his dream girl. I’ve probably got mustard and mayo on my chin.
Many daydreams plagued me during the period where I visited the listing for this house forty-six times (according to him). Fantasies of my kids playing in that yard. Dreams of having a pool put in with a fence to keep those kids safe. Now my mind drifts to thoughts of fairy lights at night outlining the yard, and me and my man fucking under the stars on a deck chair. The fairy lights blend into the next image of a two-storey Christmas tree beside the fireplace that’s directly behind me right now.
I had to stop indulging in those daydreams. Because Adam thought the house was too expensive. Too old. Too far. He had a million reasons for not buying it. He also thought it was way too much money for a starter home. I didn’t want a starter home. I wanted to move into a home after our honeymoon and stay there forever.
The dream of this place fizzled to nothing when the accident happened. A few months later, Adam’s mother told us about the accessible townhome she found in a price range we could afford now and with all the bells and whistles Adam would need as part of his rehabilitation road. And of course I put my unrealistic dreams of this house aside. It’s not like we had enough money, but it sat on the market for months and up until my life had become all about Adam’s diagnosis, I had hoped the price would drop. That something would work out. But then of course I didn’t think about it anymore. Except the day we moved into the townhome and it was so, so different from what I thought would be the place I’d put down roots.