Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Back in the cabin, Andy flops down for a nap while I unpack a massive bag of groceries I threw together at the last minute. And that’s how I find out Brock doesn’t eat all his meals off art deco plates prepared by world-class chefs.
He goes to work making homemade pasta without even looking at a recipe while I whip up my grandma’s classic Bolognese sauce. If I didn’t have fifteen years of practice making it for my dad and Maisy, I’d be intimidated.
But the way he smiles at me over wine later, when we’re in the jacuzzi tub out back, tells me it’s a winner.
So is the way he lifts me up and carries me to bed, all greedy looks and roaming lips that tighten his spell on my soul.
In the morning, I wake up to Andy pawing at the door.
Brock is already hunched over his laptop at the table when I throw my robe on and pad out, stopping next to him.
I reach for his computer and gently close it.
“No working, Crankyface. This is our weekend, remember?”
“Very demanding, Miss Renee. And you call me a tyrant.” With a wicked smile, he swings up and swats my butt.
Even though I’m laughing, I know where this goes.
I don’t even last a second after Andy flies out the door before Brock has me against the wall, his hot breath on my throat, yanking my robe open.
“Hey!” I yell through my laughter. “What do you think you’re—”
A firm hand cups my bare breast. He gives me a feral look.
“What does it look like? Mrs. Farmer, if you won’t let me work, you’ll have to keep me entertained other ways.”
“Hoover’s going to be pissed if you delay his breakfast...” I tease, working to keep my breathing even and pretending my nipple hasn’t pebbled under his touch.
“Hoover doesn’t eat for another hour.” He replaces his hand with his mouth.
Holy hell.
My eyes flutter shut and I slide down the wall with a butterfly sigh.
We never make it to the bed.
He tears down his boxers, shoves his way between my legs, and takes me hard and fast against the wall. It’s a miracle we don’t damage the wood paneling.
Brock drives against my body like the ocean waves slapping the shore, matching their rhythm and the intensity.
I grind out my pleasure through clenched teeth when he empties himself inside me.
God.
When I’m breathless and ragged and still tangled in his arms, it hits me just how insanely lucky I am.
For the rest of the weekend, we live out our fantasies.
We might as well be the Farmers when all the worries of Pippa and Brock are a few hundred miles away.
I’m so high on him I never want to come down.
If I had my way, I’d stay here forever with a thousand stolen kisses, masterful sex, an excitable puppy who never fails to make me laugh, and a man who helps me cook and does it so freaking well.
But if I had my way, we never would’ve had to suffer what came next.
The week after we return from the beach is a blur.
It’s like the afterglow when you wake up from a lovely dream where everything feels fuzzy and unreal.
Everything is going too right for once.
Maisy calls to tell me Dad is up and moving. The marketing campaign Jenn and I put together runs flawlessly, and there haven’t been any new hiccups as Winthrope Seattle preps for the big fashion show.
So, why am I just waiting for the other shoe to drop?
Why do I have that knot of panic in my belly?
Is it just the utter insanity happening today?
I hope.
Brock pulls me closer in the back seat of the SUV. “You’re tense as hell,” he observes.
Without looking at him, I nod.
“Talk to me,” he demands. “You’re a lot of things, woman, and quiet isn’t one of them.”
I smile. “I’m just nervous.”
“About?” He side-eyes me.
Is he kidding?
“Well, not everyone is used to waltzing around with billionaires and gossipmongers.”
He laughs. “It’s a closed event. If the press shows up, Gramps will toss them out personally. I wouldn’t feed you to the wolves, Sunshine.”
“...but what if your grandparents don’t like me? Do you think it’s too soon?”
His piercing blue gaze sharpens.
“Do you think it’s too soon?” He grabs my hand and squeezes. “Because I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
“I’m sure about you.” I close my eyes. “About us. It’s just, if your grandparents don’t like me, or if they think I’m—” I stop, trying to find a diplomatic way to say 'trashy.'
“They’ll adore you. I promise,” he growls, so much certainty ringing in his tone I can’t even argue.
His arms sweep me into his lap. “And if a one in a trillion disaster strikes and they don’t, it doesn’t change anything.”
I so don’t deserve this man.
My lip trembles.
He has me on the edge of tears.