Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Thanks.” She carefully makes her way toward me through the string beans.
“Date?” I keep my voice casual, neutral, the exact opposite of how the thought of her on a date with someone else actually makes me feel.
“What?” She frowns and tilts her head.
“Were you on a date?” I ask with excruciating pronunciation.
“Oh, no.” She smiles, slants a knowing glance up at me. “Would you care if I was?”
I don’t reply, but just stare at her, unblinking, letting her feel my answer instead of wasting words.
“I wasn’t on a date. It was a charity event.” She grimaces. “A work thing. I wasn’t expecting you back from New York for a few days.”
I pluck idly at a dead leaf on a tomato vine. “Yeah. I wanted to get back.”
To see you.
I wanted her answer. I know I have a lot of baggage. Having a kid is one thing. Living with his mom for the last decade? Being in the midst of negotiating what is practically a divorce—it’s complicated. I’m not exactly a safe bet. I get it, but I can’t not ask Kimba to take this risk with me. As irrational as it may seem, since we were only thirteen when I left, this feels like our second chance, and I’ll do just about anything to have it. She picks her way down the row of vegetables, her stilettos sinking into the soil. Her ankle turns, bringing a grimace to her lips.
Her pretty, painted lips.
I like your lips the way they always are.
Thirteen-year-old Ezra was on to something. As beautiful as Kimba looks with the artistry of her makeup, I still prefer her lips bare.
I haven’t moved, and she keeps walking toward me. My hands twitch with the compulsion to hold her, so I stuff them in my pockets, an old tell she can still probably easily read. I make a deal with myself. Until she says yes, until she says she’s willing to give us a chance, I won’t touch her.
The chemistry between us is electricity over an open flame. It destroys reason, and I want her as clear-eyed and level-headed as possible if and when she agrees to try with me. As clear-eyed and level-headed as you can be after a bottle of Mona’s wine and an undisclosed number of edibles.
Kimba looks steady and sober enough when she stops in front of me on the row of collards.
“So, Noah was good?” she asks.
“Yeah.” For once, I don’t want to talk about my son.
“And your mother? She was okay?”
I for damn sure don’t want to discuss my mother when I’m sporting a semi in front of the literal girl of my dreams. “She’s good,” I reply tersely. “Did you need something, Kimba?”
Like me? Do you need me? Because I need you, and if you keep standing here in my garden looking like this, smelling like summer and seduction, I’ll take you, so get on with it.
“Oh.” She glances down at her expensive shoes, covered in dirt. She clutches her clutch, pressing the little purse to her waist. “Yeah, well…I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“What I said?” Endangering my good intentions, my legs carry me a step closer to her. “What I said about what?”
She huffs an exasperated breath and slides a glance to the side, over to the squash. “About us…giving this a try. Since I’m here in the city and you’re…” She glances up at me and then quickly back down. The fairy lights we strung around the garden streak shadows with her eyelashes on the tops of her cheeks. “…available.”
“Available?” I risk a step closer, not wanting to hope, but liking where this is going. “Yeah, I’m available.”
I pause, holding my breath and balling my fists in the pockets of my jeans.
“Well, since you’re available and so am I…” She gives me a level look and draws in a bust-lifting breath. “I’m saying yes.”
That magic word sets me into immediate motion. I reach for her, scooping her close and wrapping my arms around her waist. I bend my knees so I can bury my nose in the silky sweep of skin from her shoulder, up her neck and behind her ear. Her fingers in my hair are the most delicious kind of torture.
I pull back to brush my thumb across the vibrant coat of lipstick, smearing it. Her lips are soft as petals under my finger. I do it again and again until nothing but the natural pinkish-brown of her mouth remains. Her breaths come harder every time I touch her lips, and she’s panting, her eyes never leaving my face. I cup the back of her head and bend, giving her one last moment to think better of it—to pull away. But instead she leans in, meeting me halfway, her mouth open and her sweet tongue seeking mine. I groan into the kiss, searching the silky interior of her mouth, my hands roaming down her back and squeezing her ass through the shimmering layers of fabric.