Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
It takes me a few tries to find my voice. “Do you . . . do you regret the deal we made?”
The crash of the sea grows louder in our shared silence. When he answers, his voice is low and wary. “No.”
I turn to him. He’s staring off into the night, the lines of his body hard. When I made my offer, I thought he was the one getting the better deal. That my begrudging services were something of greater worth to him. Now, I have to wonder . . . “Why did you agree to it?”
I watch his jaw work, tensing and releasing as though he’s sorting through multiple answers. His coal-dark eyes finally find mine. There’s nothing in his expression when he gives me his answer. “I really don’t know.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
He leaves me standing there, shocked and unsettled as all hell. I stare out at the waves glinting in the waning light. Somewhere out there is my sister.
“Damn you, Samantha,” I whisper with a sharpness that scrapes my throat. If she were here, I’d make her face her mistakes. If she were here, I would no longer have to be. I could escape, go back to my orderly life, and forget about Macon Saint—or the terrifying truth that I am in real danger of falling for him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Macon
Karen and my publicist, Timothy, keep texting to see when I’ll be “back to normal.” I am not ready to go back to my normal schedule. I won’t admit it to anyone, but the idea of being formally “out there” with the eyes of the world watching my every move has me breaking out in a cold sweat. Given my profession, this is a problem.
I didn’t lie to Delilah; talking to the mango seller about Arasmus and Dark Castle was enjoyable. It was gratifying to know my work gives others pleasure. But it wasn’t my work that caused those two women to stalk me. I was a thing to them. Sometimes, in the still of the night, when I’m not guarding my thoughts, they’ll creep up on me, those grasping fingers, the flashing light of their cameras. I might have bled out and died before they finally called 911. And I can’t help but think that going out in the public eye will draw more of their kind.
It pisses me off that I care.
A little more time, I tell myself. That’s all I need. A little more time to regroup, heal. And then I’ll be good. Just like new.
Until then, I’m sticking to the house. And there’s one place I find myself gravitating toward.
The kitchen.
It has become a living, thriving beast in the center of my once quiet and orderly house. There’s no ignoring the new heart of my home. It won’t let me. I constantly hear the sounds coming out of it: clanks, sizzles, muted thumps and bangs. A cacophony of sounds. It should annoy me, but it intrigues me instead. What tasty delights will come from those sounds? What new dish will bring me to my knees and make me beg for more?
Scents waft from the kitchen, dancing around the halls to find me and tickle my nose. Warm and comforting and mouthwatering. “Come closer,” those scents seem to say. “Come see what we have for you.”
Come.
How can I ignore that?
So I don’t. I follow the siren’s call and find the siren herself at the very center of activity.
Delilah moves with utter confidence in her kitchen—because it is unequivocally hers now. This is a prima ballerina performing a solo. Not a fast-paced, frantic dance, but slow and easy, controlled power in motion.
Knowing that she hasn’t yet noticed me, I simply watch her work, admiring the curves of her body as she reaches for a spoon to taste a sauce. The pink tip of her tongue flashes as she licks her lush top lip. Something hot and tight clenches low in my gut at the sight. Then she’s moving again, adding a spice to her sauce; a flick of her wrist controls the temperature on the stove.
My body remembers the feel of hers, the way she cuddled up in my lap for those few mindless minutes. I was surprised enough that she did it. I simply held her, afraid to make any move that might startle her away. She was warm and soft, her tan skin smelling of butter and cinnamon sugar. I wanted to sit there all night and breathe her in.
I wanted to let my hands roam over those plump curves and learn each one. It was an act of careful coordination to keep her from noticing just how much she affected me. It was worth the painful dick and the aching gut of lust because in that moment, she felt perfect.