Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
I toss away the blanket, walk into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and throw on some shorts and a tank, before donning my fluffy slippers. Tyler still isn’t back when I’m done, and I seek him out, locating him in the kitchen where he’s busy making the coffee I was about to make myself. At present, he’s filling the carafe with water, his shoulders bunching, flexing as he does, and aside from the fact that the man looks good—he always looks good—that tension is a sign his stress is not gone.
“I got it,” I say quickly, before he can add the grounds. “I bought some new coffee I want to make.”
He turns off the water. “I can do it. Where is it?”
“I know you have to be in early today. Go shower. I’ll bring you a cup.”
He places the carafe on the coffee maker and pulls me to him before kissing my temple. “I’ll start by brushing my teeth and then kiss you properly.”
“You did plenty of that last night.”
“About last night…”
“It’s over. Go. Get ready.”
He hesitates but ultimately, he walks away. I grab the bag of chocolate brownie coffee, get it brewing, and then love on Molly. Our pot brews super-fast, so I’ve barely had my fill of morning puppy-loving when it’s ready. I quickly doctor two cups the way we each like it, sample the product, and give it a thumbs up. With both mugs in hand, I seek out Tyler, finding him standing in the shower, water already off, with a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s speedy when he wants to be.
“Perfect timing,” I say, setting his cup on the counter.
He steps out onto the bathroom rug and grabs the cup, sipping. “It tastes like a brownie.”
“Yes, yes, it does. Do you like it?” A question I ask because he’s a basic grounds kind of guy.
“I actually do, but don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my bastard image.”
I push myself up and sit on the counter. “I think you did that when you announced you love me enough to marry me.”
My cellphone rings and I purse my lips. “Only my father or brother would call me this early. I’m guessing my father. He always forgets what time zone he’s in.” I rush to the bedside table and sure enough, it’s my father.
I’m up early enough to spend fifteen minutes chatting with him, and promising to bring Tyler to his upcoming expedition race in Dallas that was rescheduled. When we disconnect, I walk back into the bathroom to remind Tyler about the race, and when he’s not in the bathroom, I step into the closet doorway and say, “My dad’s really excited about you coming to his race and—” I freeze when I realize he’s fully dressed in one of his custom blue suits, but he’s sitting on the bench, head down, with his tie hanging loose.
Warnings go off in my head. I was right about the tension in his shoulders while he was at the kitchen counter this morning. Last night isn’t over. He still wants to leave. “What’s going on?” I ask, my throat raw, my words raspy.
He lifts his head, his blue eyes tormented by shadows, and says, “I’m looking forward to your father’s race, Bella.”
I blink, confused as heck right about now. “Those words don’t compute. Not when I found you like…this. What is going on?”
He uncurls his perfect body, standing, before he closes the space between us but he doesn’t touch me. His hands plant on the door trim on either side of me. I stand there, waiting for him to speak, studying the handsome, tightly drawn lines of his face and holding my breath. Seconds tick by and just like last night, I find myself pressing him. “Tyler?”
“I can’t shake the feeling I had last night, like something bad is going to happen. I’ve never had a gut feeling this strong that was wrong, but I also never thought I’d really be lucky enough to call you mine. Maybe it’s my fucked up past. You were able to experience your parents living a happy life together before your mother died. I only saw marginally suppressed anger in mine. If I’m being objective, it could just be that.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, because while I can guess, I want him to tell me what he feels. “Just be that?”
“Maybe I don’t know how to be happy because until you, I’ve never been happy. And I don’t want you—and us—taken away from me, and my instinct is to find a way to control that idea and stop it from happening.”
“And yet you wanted to leave last night?”
“I need to know you are on this Earth alive and well. That’s all that was.”
My heart squeezes with the roughly drawn words, and the sincere torment in his eyes. I step into him and catch the lapels of his jacket. “Leaving me isn’t the way to do that.”