Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
We also did some not-so-sleeping sleeping on the kitchen table early this morning after our breakfast/supper—breakupper? Brupper? Breaper?
A quick crack of the blinds lets in far too much sunlight for my sleepy brain to handle. My eyes instantly tear up at the brightness, and my breath catches when I see my parents’ car in the driveway. My dad is getting out, his cane first, and then my mom walks around to the passenger side to help him.
“Shit!”
I drop the blinds and tear myself away from the window. Leon is still sleeping soundly. He’s so peaceful, sprawled on his side with one arm thrown up around his face, which is so unguarded and beautiful. His breaths are deep, even, and completely unaware that my freaking parents are here. The sight of his naked chest, the slope of his shoulders, and the heavy fringe of lashes on his cheeks do me in. I want to drape myself over him and protect him forever. I want to fix what goes on with his head. I want to fix his past. And I want, more than anything, to have him for the foreseeable future.
I don’t know how to wake him up. I don’t want to hurt him, and I’m still so worried about his migraines. I settle for running my finger lightly down the arm that is sticking out of the sheet.
“Leon,” I whisper. He doesn’t stir. My heart is starting to pound. My dad will take a while to walk up to the porch because of his foot and the cane, and the door is locked, but they have keys. I brush my fingertips over Leon’s temples, then run them through the soft strands of his hair. “Leon, sweetheart, wake up.”
He stirs at that, his eyes opening. He blinks sleepily, looking as confused as I was earlier, and then puts a hand over his eyes to shield them. He turns over onto his back, and I know I don’t have time to do it, but I can’t help it. I lean forward and kiss him, and whoever said that morning breath was a thing didn’t know Leon Montague because he tastes like sweet, minty heaven. And himself. That’s the best part.
Me, on the other hand? Shit. Morning breath might be a thing for me. I try to pull back, but his hand comes up and grasps the back of my neck, holding me close. I let him take his time kissing me breathless until finally, he breaks away.
“My parents are here,” I pant. “Shit. They’re probably at the door by now.”
That makes him tense. “Your parents?”
“Yeah. I talked to them last night and told them I was here with my friend, who I wasn’t ready for them to meet, and uh, I guess that meant they needed to take it upon themselves to be overbearing and overprotective and to check up on me because while they do trust me, they also love me way too much, and they’re far, far too curious.”
Leon tries to sit up, but I plant my palm on his rock-solid chest. My hand tingles at the warmth of his skin. I want to put my lips there, but I don’t, since I need to be wearing clothes when my parents finally get in here.
“Don’t sit up too fast.”
A wry smile arches across his face. “I’m okay.”
“Still. Don’t rush. I—I don’t want you to….”
“I’m not made of glass,” he assures me, but tenderly and kindly.
“It’s three in the afternoon.” I figure that out after I spin around to check my phone, which is on the nightstand. “Shit. They will not expect us to be in bed.”
“You get dressed, and I’ll make sure the bed looks immaculate, and there are no articles of clothing strewn anywhere in the room. I’ll need a five-minute distraction. And if you could throw some of my clothes in here, I’d appreciate it.”
Right. Clothes. Yes. I race for the bedroom where my bag is. I throw open my duffel bag and find a sundress, my bra, and panties, all in record time. I might not actually have the bra on straight when I’m done, and I think my panties might be on backward, but I’m not stopping to check. I’ll deal with it later.
Peeling open Leon’s bag feels something like an intimate intrusion. Yes, I pick up his dry cleaning, but that’s different. I know I’m being silly, but pulling out a T-shirt and jeans, a pair of boxers, and grabbing a black leather bag that probably has his brush and toothbrush and such, feels like I’m delving somewhere that I shouldn’t.
These are my husband’s things.
My fake husband.
Well, my real husband, actually.
I don’t have time to debate the semantics of that, so I rush back to the bedroom and set everything down on the end of the bed. Leon is sitting up with the sheet pulled over his lap. His hair is flattened on one side, and he’s still blinking away sleep. I wish I could take him right back to bed. My thighs ache, and my va-jay gives a big oh hell yeah vote to that idea, but unfortunately, it’s not an option.