Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
As if I needed one more thing to worry about. The Kensingtons were totally the kind of people who would hire a PI to dig up dirt on me. Thankfully, there wasn’t much to find that the Kensingtons didn’t already know.
“No, I… no. I don’t sleep around. I mean, I…” I sighed and shook my head. I couldn’t help but laugh. “I get around fine, but no, I’m not a playboy.”
“Why are we even talking about this?” Parrish asked a little snappishly. “Whoever you choose to sleep with is your business. It’s certainly no business of mine. I only came with the apology chicken. And now I should go.” He stood up and plunked Marigold in my lap before putting the bottle in the kitchen sink and heading for the door.
“Wait!” I called out. I hadn’t even gotten to the favor yet.
He turned around and snapped his fingers. “Of course. The chicken passie. Here.” He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was one of Marigold’s toys from the courthouse.
“I need you to pretend to be my fiancé to help me get custody of Marigold,” I blurted.
Parrish blinked at me before turning on his heel and marching out of the house. This time, unfortunately, he picked the correct door. By the time I raced after him, he was skidding his way out of my driveway in his dusty red Mustang.
“Well, fuck, baby girl,” I muttered into Marigold’s dark curls. “That didn’t exactly go the way I’d planned.”
3
Parrish
“And then. Then! The idiot says, ‘Hey there, Parrish, could you do me a favor and pretend to be my fiancé real quick, to help me get custody of the baby?’” I lowered my voice to mimic Diesel Church’s deep, throaty rumble but couldn’t quite get there because I wasn’t built like a freakin’ grizzly bear. “You know who says things like that, Miss Sara?”
Sarabeth Kelly, the sixtysomething owner of the Jackson King Bed and Breakfast, glanced up from the butter cake she was frosting at the center island, and her long, dangling bell earrings tinkled.
“Insane people, that’s who!” I answered myself as I paced to the end of the wide pine floors where the giant refrigerator sat. I turned on my heel to pace back, and grudgingly I admitted, “Granted, he doesn’t look insane.”
I paused by the large island as my mind unhelpfully conjured a picture of Diesel from earlier in the day, tall and muscled, cradling baby Marigold in his massive, tattooed paws, staring at her with his beautiful eyes full of undisguised affection.
“Insanely hot maybe,” I muttered, resuming my pacing until I reached the door to the yard, where I pivoted again. “Insanely, adorably, ridiculously hot. And funny. And he felt…” I swallowed, remembering the warm solidity of his arm over my shoulder as he’d pulled me against his side and claimed me. “Really good.” Too good. Too comfortable. “Which is all the more reason why his idea is a one-way ticket to crazytown! Don’t you think?”
I reached the edge of the island again, and Miss Sara glanced up from her frosting once more. She blew a strand of chin-length platinum-blonde hair out of her eyes.
“Parrish, sweetie, you’re making me dizzy.” She grabbed a spoon from the stoneware jug on the counter, scooped up a big dollop of buttercream, and motioned me toward one of the wooden stools. “Take a load off and eat some frosting, alright?”
I took the spoon, heaved a sigh, and sat. Immediately, Miss Sara’s basset hound, Elvis, came and plonked his bulk down on top of my foot, so I bent down to scratch his floppy ears.
Golden late-afternoon sunlight poured through the windows from the backyard, glinting off the copper pots that hung over the island and giving a warm glow to the floors and the reclaimed wood ceiling. It was a tidy, homey place, way smaller than my aunt Marnie’s big kitchen up in Nashville, but with the same sort of vibe. The kind of place I’d always wanted for my own but was starting to think I’d never have.
Miss Sara worked some kind of stressful day job to make a living, but the B&B had been a passion project for her and her late husband, and she said she found it incredibly fulfilling. She was the sort of woman who wore tailored jeans but bare feet, and perfectly styled hair but no makeup. She spent hours listening to romance novel audiobooks and made a new dessert for us every night, even though all the other guests had checked out right after the Lickin’. She also wore a bright yellow apron with the name of the Cherryville Butterfly Conservatory at the top and a picture of a pipevine swallowtail with iridescent blue wings underneath, and you could tell a lot about a person by their favorite species of butterfly. It was impossible not to like her or to feel at home in her house, which was probably why I’d driven here immediately after leaving Diesel’s place, with my head still whirling over the idea he’d proposed.