Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25822 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25822 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
She blushes and then zips her jeans. Just as the door flies open.
Chapter 8
Zoe
Hells bells, it’s hard to pull yourself together after an epic orgasm when two children are prancing around the room, yelling for their ‘Uncle Graham’ to pick them up and see their pretty pink dresses.
“This is Gia,” Graham holds the youngest dark-haired girl, “and this is June.” He wraps his arm around the older of the two little girls, the girl from the mall. He gives a kiss to Gia before putting her down. “Ok, go downstairs, girls, and I’ll be right there.”
They bound from the room, and Graham gives me a half-smile. “My nieces.” He scrubs a hand at the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
I’m mortified. “Ok, no more of that. Can you imagine if they had…”
Graham cuts in, “I’ll make sure the door is locked, next time.”
There can’t be a next time. There shouldn’t have been a this time. I blame my lack of control on the fact he’s one of those guys who’s too good-looking. You know the type—the ones you can’t stop staring at because your brain can’t handle all the deliciousness at once. It’s like standing in a bakery shop. You can’t process all the things that look so great all at once, so you just keep staring in disbelief. Gawking, really. And then you tell yourself you’ll start your diet tomorrow, because you just can’t resist.
After a quick freshen up, we head back downstairs to rejoin his family. When we enter the gargantuan living room, a dark-haired woman, with eyes the color of Graham’s, pulls a plethora of coloring books and crayons from a large ottoman next to the couch.
“You must be the fiancée,” she says, extending her hand for me to shake.
“Hi, I’m Zoe.” I shake her hand and she does something unexpected, she pulls me in for a hug.
“I never thought he’d settle down,” she says for only me to hear. I can hear the happiness in her voice, and even though this is as fake as fiction, I still feel a warmth spread through my chest at the thought of being the one he’s picked to bring home.
Absurd, I know.
“This is my little sister, Lindsey,” Graham introduces us. “And you already met the girls, Gia and Junebug.” He holds each by the hand, and they lead him over to the couch to color with them.
“He’s so good with them,” Lindsey says. “So, what do you do?” she asks, plopping down onto one of the two leather sofas.
“I make soap.” I peek over at Graham coloring with the two young girls and try to ignore the explosion in my ovaries.
“That’s a cool job. I’m always looking for good soap. Gia has such sensitive skin.”
“Well, I have all kinds of soaps you could try.” We talk about mundane things, but it’s oddly easy. I like Lindsey.
She’s nice. Things are going well until I catch June staring at me.
“Are you the elf from the mall?”
Graham’s head pops up. Well I can’t lie to a child, can I? Well, actually, I do by even pretending to be an elf, so yeah, I can. “No.”
My eyes collide with Graham’s and I wonder how in the world I’m going to survive Christmas in this house. The rest of the day passes in a blur of pretending to be in love, and after everyone is tucked in their beds, including me, I toss and turn replaying every touch and glance from Graham until I finally pass out and dream I’m in a runaway sleigh, careening through soap bubbles toward a cliff, unable to stop my demise.
“You have to take it slowly, and just let yourself glide,” Graham instructs, with his hands cradling my hips.
We left his mother’s house early this morning, and thanks to York, we’re at an indoor rink.
“Well, I’m trying,” I say, as York skates up to us, like the pro he is. He sends a fine mist of ice flying when he twists to a stop.
“Want to play a game?” he asks Graham.
“Yeah, right.” Graham laughs. “I think the odds are not in my favor. Besides, I’m busy.”
York smiles at me, and I still can't believe I’m actually in his presence. Not only is he the best player in the league—he’s the hottest. I know that sounds bad to downplay his skills on the ice, but obviously I don’t watch hockey because I love the game. Of course, he’s not Graham gorgeous. And it would be nice if Graham wasn’t either. Instead of clinging to his masculinity wrapped up in jeans and a black sweater, I cling to the wall. “I guess my secret is out,” I say.
“What, you’re really a professional skater?” Graham teases.
I laugh, almost losing control of my skates, but his large hands steady me. “My secret is I didn’t grow up in the snow like you all did. I’m a Florida girl.”