Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
I sit up against the headboard and push the hair out of my face. “You didn’t have to do that.” I leave the rest unsaid, that I should be the one to go down to the kitchen and bring him breakfast because his burns and cuts and gunshot wounds may have healed, but he’s a long way from walking normally.
“Yes, I did.” He puts the tray in my lap. “You didn’t have dinner, and I wore you out.”
The pleasant warm feeling that spreads through my chest has more to do with the fact that he made me a giant mug of coffee and honey-drizzled pancakes topped with blueberries and cream than his referral to the mind-blowing orgasms of last night.
“You must be exhausted.” A deep line cuts between his eyebrows. “You’ve been up with Claire every two hours. I would’ve let you sleep, but she’s going to make a raucous noise in…” he checks his smartwatch, “…fifteen minutes.”
It’s true. Claire’s feeding schedule is like clockwork. What surprises me is that he paid enough attention to have pegged her routine.
“Thanks,” I say, cupping the mug and lifting it to my nose to inhale the welcome fragrance of the coffee even though it’s decaf.
I’ll take my daily dose of poison again the day I stop breastfeeding, which won’t be until at least a year. I want to give Claire breastmilk for as long as I can.
I take a sip of the robust brew. “This tastes like heaven.” I utter a sigh. “If you weren’t already married, I’d propose to you.”
The words tumbled from my mouth in a sneaky unguarded moment when I allowed myself to relax. Given our situation, the humor is inappropriate. It’s a terrible compliment, an unfortunate comparison, but he only smiles.
“I wouldn’t think twice,” he says. “I’d say yes.”
His playfulness catches me off guard. Yet he’s not joking. Not only. There’s a serious undertone to his words.
This—making semi-funny statements that we semi-really mean—isn’t us.
“Seriously, Sav.” I lower my mug. “What are we doing?”
His gaze becomes shuttered. “What do you mean?”
“Until yesterday, you wanted me to leave. Now we’re sleeping together.”
His chuckle is wry. “We’re husband and wife, Anya.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. You’re confusing me.”
He watches me with that intense look that always makes me feel a little uncomfortable. Under scrutiny. As if he can see into my soul.
“Which part of my behavior do you find confusing?” he asks. “I think I made it pretty clear how badly I want inside you.”
“It’s not the sex.”
“No?” He raises a thick, dark eyebrow. “Then what is it?”
“You married me for Claire, yet Dante spends more time with her than you do.”
And if he doesn’t want to be a father any longer, then what am I doing here?
Wait.
Is this why he wanted to ship us off to Europe?
“What do you want?” I ask, my chest suddenly too tight. “Have you changed your mind about becoming a parent?”
His tone is flat. “I haven’t changed my mind.” His expression darkens. “Circumstances changed.” Studying me with a predatory gleam in his uncovered eye, he says, “I gave you an option, and you made your choice.” He shrugs, not quite managing to pull off a nonchalant attitude. “You’re just going to have to live with it now.”
I swallow, not knowing what to say to that. One night of explosive sex, and we’ve gone back to how things were before the wedding. I guess that’s the only way we know.
On cue, Claire’s fussing sounds on the monitor on my nightstand.
“Shall I ask Livy to take her while you finish your breakfast?” Saverio asks.
It’s not lost on me that he didn’t offer to go to Claire.
“No,” I say, putting the mug on the tray and pushing it aside. “I’ll get her. I can eat while feeding her.”
He gets out of my way when I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“I’ll take care of dinner.” He goes ahead of me to the door. “You don’t have to worry about cooking.”
“Aren’t you coming to work?” I ask, my gaze glued on the back of his head.
“I am working,” he says without turning around.
“I mean at After Dark.”
The hesitation that follows is so brief it’s almost unnoticeable, but I pay attention.
“I can work better here,” he says.
Without another word, he disappears around the door frame, the sound of the wheelchair soundless on the carpet runner.
At some point, he has to face people. He has to confront his demons in order to move on, but today isn’t that day. It’s too soon. I get that.
I fetch Claire and hold the fragile, perfect little girl on my arm, watching her hollow her tiny cheeks as she drinks greedily while I finish my breakfast with one hand.
I’m ready, dressed in champagne-colored pants and a matching sweater when Livy blows through the door in skinny jeans, a T-shirt with sweet as sugar splashed over the front, and military style boots. An array of enamel pins with old pop group names are pinned onto the lapels of her oversized jacket, and a black scarf with a silver thread is wound loosely around her neck.