Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 130022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
But it was on display in his house where his children lived.
Perhaps not in the living room…but still.
“I never go into their room because…gross,” Manon had said about it.
This had genuinely made me sad.
Because Remy and Manon used to cuddle up in our bed all the time, watching romcoms (they were both suckers for a good romcom, or a bad one) or reading (they were big readers and we hadn’t had any furniture where dad and daughter could snuggle and lose themselves in books, except our big bed).
One could say, if you wanted to stake your territory in your man’s house that you had to share with his kids, that was a good way to do it.
And that was how I took it.
With all things Remy! spilling all over his home, including his kids being there a lot of the time, Myrna had to stake her claim somewhere.
So she did.
But honestly, though I’d never utter these words out loud to anyone (not even Kara and Bernice, definitely not Bea), I would be happy in that house.
Absolutely, my huge kitchen with its acres of marble countertops (Remy’s reno, almost upon us moving in, in fact our entire house had been reno’ed and decorated by him—not a surprise, since projects he worked on now, he designed everything from the building to the furniture and carpeting) and my new master suite that was most women’s dream, would be hard to walk away from.
But his house was just that awesome.
And if that was what he’d wanted (and I knew it was, he’d talked about it often enough), once the kids were all gone or close to it (say, now) I would have given it to him.
Which would cue Bea getting in my face about it, like she did anytime I “gave into” Remy.
This was all on my mind as I walked from my car to his front door and pressed the button for the doorbell.
It wasn’t a surprise when he opened it almost immediately.
And he did it with a face like thunder (again, no surprise).
Still, that face was unbelievable.
He was ridiculously attractive, had been when we met, and was even more so now.
Tall (six foot three). Built solid and bulky with thighs that could spawn their own religion. He had messy, dark, always overlong hair that now had threads of silver in it, and classic French male features. Strong, distinctive nose. Heavy brow. Thick eyebrows. Wide forehead. Perfectly formed mouth that had a tendency to rest in a delicious male pout or a distressingly outstanding smirk.
He was, as I stared up at him glowering down at me, cool.
That was Remy.
Cool.
Effortlessly so.
He was who Hugh Hefner wanted to be, standing there in his fabulous doorway with his distinctive home behind him wearing a pair of jeans that were soft as velvet (I knew because I’d washed them) and faded almost white. They hung loose but hinted at a superior ass (the hint was true) and could bunch in mysterious, delicious ways around a promising package (and it lived up to that promise).
Up top, a pale-yellow button-up shirt that opened to give a generous visual of a strong, tanned column of throat and the cut of his muscled collarbone and hung off his shoulders in a casual, “I don’t give a shit” way that was so attractive, you could taste it on your tongue.
His feet were bare, the front hems of his jeans draped over his ankles, and the back hems were raw ends because he’d been walking on them for years.
He was top-to-toe beautiful.
And he was no longer mine.
“You’re late,” he bit, his rich voice edged with barbs, like molasses tinged with serrano. “No fuckin’ surprise.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I am. Yes. I’ve no excuse. But I truly am sorry.”
His head ticked with surprise at my response because I was always late, and I always had an excuse, and at our end, this always bugged him, the being-late part, and the excuse part.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“Have you been crying?”
Guess I should have allotted another minute to fixing my makeup.
“I’m good. I’m fine. I’m here. I really am sorry that—”
“Why have you been crying?”
There was no use denying I had. First, I couldn’t really hide it. Second, I knew this man, every inch of his body, every mood he could have, every expression that could pass over his face, all of it like the back of my hand.
He knew me the same.
So there was no point.
I locked eyes with him and said, “Honestly, Remy, I’m okay. But Sabre probably—”
“Why have you been crying, Wyn?”
“It really isn’t that big of a deal.”
Lie: I’m crying because I finally came to terms with the fact that we’re over.
“I’m good. Honestly.”
Lie: You were the love of my life and I let us fail.
“I’m okay now. Let’s do this with Sabre.”
Lie: I wasn’t. But I was determined I would be. Eventually.