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)
Mom did not mention my father, and I didn’t ask about him.
Fiona likely caught on to this and didn’t ask many questions either.
She and Mom were fast friends, and my mother was talking about coming to Jupiter again in a few months.
The only awkward moment was the last night, when Mom tried to mention me coming home.
“My home is here,” I said, looking down at my plate of food.
“Of course, your home is here now, but the home you’ll always have is—”
“My home is here,” I repeated, louder this time, slamming my hand down on the table hard enough to make the glasses teeter.
My mother jumped and paled some, but she sipped her wine delicately. “Of course it is, honey,” she placated, as she was an expert at doing.
Fiona noticed that too. It was hard not to. And she didn’t ask questions.
Which was unheard of with a woman. In my experience, at least. If they liked you, they had questions. About your likes and dislikes, about your past and your plans for the future.
But then again, Fiona didn’t like me, as she was so fond of telling me when we were alone.
But she reached for me in her sleep.
six
Amending the Agreement
fiona
I needed to get laid.
Badly.
Between Kip’s mother’s visit, the forced intimacy, the sharing of a bed and a bathroom, and the glimpses of his impressive abs and Adonis belt, I needed to get fucking laid.
My vibrator was not doing it for me.
Especially since now it was Kip I saw when I was coming. And worse, it wasn’t the abs or the Adonis belt I visualized. It was him, dirty, fresh from work, his hair mussed, his hands stained with whatever he’d been working with that day.
I found myself staring at them. His hands. Throughout the day. Even in the morning when I was a zombie and couldn’t comprehend much beyond basic shapes and colors, I was transfixed by his fucking hands pouring himself coffee.
It was bad. I felt like I was a thirteen-year-old boy, thinking about sex every minute of the day.
Not healthy.
Hence me putting on a tight dress, heels and red lipstick, and driving myself to the next town over to the local bar on a Saturday night.
I was going fishing.
It didn’t take long for me to catch one.
He was… okay, I supposed. Nice face, tight tee, white teeth, good hair, and decent muscles. He called me ‘ma’am,’ trying to be cute, but it was vaguely insulting and so damn… American.
Kip was American. Even more American than that. Fuck, wasn’t he GI fucking Joe back in another life?
So, it wasn’t the American thing that bothered me.
Maybe it was the jaw that was square but clean-shaven. Or those teeth. Or the hair that wasn’t mussed and wild.
Yes, he was wrong in a way I couldn’t pinpoint. That I didn’t want to pinpoint.
He wasn’t Kip.
Which, of course, had me flirting extra heavily with him to compensate for my dangerous thoughts.
Another man’s dick inside me should cure me of this weird infatuation.
“Can I have another?” I asked the bartender.
Another man’s dick and another drink.
“Have I told you how much I love your accent?” Trent—Troy?—asked with a grin, leaning forward to place his hand on my bare thigh.
“You have, in fact, told me that,” I informed him. “It’s a really original compliment. And personal too.” I winked at him, and he chuckled, though he looked confused as to whether he should be insulted or not.
“How about I tell you what a good kisser you are? That a little more personal?” he asked, leaning closer now.
I grinned at him, wishing I’d slammed another tequila. “But you don’t know if I’m a good kisser or not,” I purred.
“I will in about five seconds,” he said.
Yep, here it was.
I was going to kiss a guy in a bar.
Like I wasn’t in my thirties.
A new low?
Not quite.
I’d married Kip, after all.
Kissing a guy whose name I didn’t know was not going to be a new low. Though I wasn’t much looking forward to it either.
The man was pulled off me before his lips could touch mine, his hand no longer at my thigh.
That was because Kip was holding him by the collar of his shirt. “Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife,” he hissed, yanking him forward.
Now, the man in question wasn’t small by any means. If you wanted to measure muscle mass against the two men, it might even lean in his favor. Likely because he injected a little something to make those muscles puff up a bit extra. You could always tell.
Kip, on the other hand, was all natural. His muscles were sculpted doing real labor. And before that, they were used to do God knew what to God knew who. But staring at them, it was very clear who the most dangerous man was.
“I didn’t fucking know she was your wife,” the man whose name I forgot stammered, trying to yank out of Kip’s grip.