Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Oh, how things had changed.
Rowan didn’t hesitate to round the counter, snatch Nora into his arms, and lay it hot and heavy on his wife.
The customers were used to it by now and barely even blinked.
It turned out they weren’t blinking because they were too busy eyeballing me.
Unluckily, I was not behind the counter. I was clearing tables.
Therefore, Kip had no barriers. I didn’t know what I was expecting from him. I didn’t know what I expected our dynamic to be as a married couple.
Maybe I wouldn’t call him an asshole in public anymore and I’d smile at him or something.
A kiss on the cheek if required.
I did not expect him to grab me from behind, whirl me around, and plant his fucking lips on mine.
Because I didn’t expect it, I didn’t fight him. Not even a little.
It did not bode well for me that I didn’t fight random strangers who grabbed me and kissed me.
It really did not bode well for me that I kissed the stranger back.
It boded worse for me that the stranger was actually Kip.
And it took me way longer to realize that than it should’ve. Well, I actually realized it straight away. It just took me way longer than it should’ve to disengage from the kiss.
My first instinct was to punch him in the face when I pulled back. Except I wasn’t physically able to fully pull back from his tight grasp. Fucker was strong.
And, as annoying as it was, it was likely good that I didn’t have the opportunity to rear back and punch him, because the whole bakery was watching, and we were supposed to be married.
Therefore, I wasn’t supposed to hit him for kissing me.
“Hi, wifey,” Kip greeted, rubbing his nose against mine.
My entire body rebelled against the label and the gesture.
“No,” I hissed at him, glancing around to see who was watching.
Everybody.
Everybody was fucking watching.
“We are not doing nicknames,” I said a bit softer. “I fucking hate nicknames with regular fucking couples. No fucking nicknames.”
Kip seemed completely amused at my fury. And he was still holding on to me.
My heart was thundering, and my stomach felt weird. Obviously because of the rage. I’d never felt rage like this before.
That was why.
“Okay, no nicknames,” he said, quieter and with some kind of sultry voice I was so not into.
And he was still looking far too fucking satisfied and amused.
“Are you going to let me go any time soon?” I gritted out.
I was gently trying to extricate myself from his arms in a way that didn’t look obvious to observers, but it wasn’t working.
“Soon,” Kip said. “Just giving the peanut gallery what they want. Plus, we don’t know who’s watching.” He winked.
I blew out a frustrated sigh. “As highly as I think of myself, I truly don’t believe the government is wasting resources on me right now.”
“You don’t know what my government wastes its time and resources on,” he countered.
So, he held me just a little while longer.
Much too long.
When he finally let me go, I stomped back to the kitchen with an armful of cups.
My knees were not weak.
No, they were not.
I was sitting with a glass of wine and a simpering temper by the time my front door opened and closed.
My fury had been brewing for quite some time. Kip and Rowan had come to the bakery first thing this morning, as was their norm. Kip then finished work just after five.
“Hey, wifey,” he said easily, again sauntering into the kitchen.
“Hours,” I said, thrumming my fingers against my wineglass. “I’ve had hours of thinking about all the different ways I could kill you, dispose of your body, and get away with it.” I took a sip of wine. “And, like many women my age, I am obsessed with serial killer documentaries, so I know all the best ways to do it. Vats of acid. Pig farms. Or simply throwing you in the ocean and letting the sharks get you.”
I stared at him, standing in my kitchen, wearing faded jeans, his socks—he did have the decency to take off his filthy boots at the door—a tight tee that had grimy streaks on it. He still had his cap on, and his dirty-blond hair was curling under the bottom of it.
He hadn’t shaved, so there was also a dirty-blond shadow on his damn chiseled and square jaw.
And he was fucking grinning at me. Grinning. Showing off a white, slightly crooked smile.
“They always look at the significant other first,” he said easily, not at all perturbed by my words or my tone.
“I can charm my way out of it,” I informed him. “You Yanks are enamored with the accent. And I have great tits.”
Kip’s gaze flickered to my chest area. “You have wonderful tits,” he agreed.
My pussy tingled.
Just a little.
But a little was far too much.