Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“I trust you,” I told her. “And actually I enjoyed watching you take her down a notch every thirty seconds.”
She smiled again, a little wickedly. “Not gonna lie, it felt pretty good. And if I never get engaged for real, at least I’ll have the memory of tonight.”
I didn’t like thinking about Felicity with anyone else—I never had. “Hey,” I said, a protective urge swelling in my chest. “Why don’t I follow you to the store? We can shop together.”
She looked surprised. “You hate shopping.”
“I hate shopping alone. But I won’t be alone—I’ll have you. And I want to buy the groceries, since you’re cooking for me.”
“Okay,” she said with a smile. “Follow me.”
I walked over to my SUV, tossed my jacket in the back seat, and got in. A minute later, she drove by and waved at me, and as crazy as it sounds, my heart started to race as I followed her out of the lot. Like this was turning into a real date or something.
But it wasn’t—we were just going grocery shopping and then back to my place to eat and hang out. It wasn’t like anything would happen. It wasn’t like there was anything different between us. All that stuff she’d said about me inside—that I looked great, that I was brilliant, that I spoiled her—was made up. And the things she did, like straighten my tie and hold my hand and touch my chest and lay her head on my shoulder . . . it was just for show.
She didn’t know how I really felt about her. And I couldn’t ever tell her. If I told her, it could go sideways in a hurry, and everything would be ruined.
I’d made my mind up about this years ago.
There was just one problem, I thought, my cock twitching in my pants again as I recalled the way she pressed her body against mine when she’d hugged me—twice.
I couldn’t stop thinking about getting her naked.
FIVE
FELICITY
“God, I love your kitchen.” I paused halving a pint of cherry tomatoes to take a sip of white wine. “I feel like I’m in a dream right now.”
“That’s because you gave me the shitty job.” Hutton had to look away from the pungent onion he was chopping.
“Sorry. Even I hate chopping onions.” I laughed and gestured to our surroundings, wine glass in hand. “But if I got to do it in this kitchen every day, even that job wouldn’t feel so bad.”
Hutton glanced around, like he’d never really noticed the gorgeous wood floors, the elegant ebony-stained cabinetry, the gleaming marble counters, the stunning Thermidor range and stainless appliances. “Yeah. It’s nice.”
I swished one bare foot across the floor’s smooth surface—I’d ditched my sneakers and socks because I loved the satin feel of them beneath my soles. “It’s more than nice. It’s probably good I don’t have this kitchen. I’d never leave my house.”
“You’re welcome to use mine whenever you want. But not if you make me chop onions.” He pushed the cutting board toward me. “Here. I’m done.”
“Thanks.” I glanced at him, and my belly did the funny flip-flop thing again. He looked so good. He’d taken off his coat and tie, loosened his collar, and cuffed up his sleeves. He had this one lock of hair that refused to submit to any product or stay off his face. It was always springing forward onto his forehead in a way that made me want to brush it out of his eyes.
It was easy to imagine this was what our life might be like if we really were a couple. My skin warmed, and I quickly focused on my tomatoes.
“What’s my next task?” he asked.
“Is the water boiling?”
He moved behind me to look at the pot on the stove. “Yes.”
“Okay. I need a large sauté pan.”
He opened a large lower drawer and stared into it. “I have a bunch of pans. I’m not sure which one you need.”
Laughing, I turned around and peered into the drawer. “You do have a bunch—and they’re very nice. Did they come with the house?”
“No. The house was furnished, but I hired someone to stock the kitchen with anything I might need.”
My jaw fell open. “That’s a thing?”
“Sure—for a price.” He watched me pull out a shiny stainless sauté pan and place it on a burner.
“So you just say, ‘I want a kitchen full of beautiful things, here’s my credit card?’ And you don’t have to shop for anything yourself?”
“Exactly. That’s the best part about making a lot of money—you can pay people to do the things you don’t want to do, like shopping.”
“You should have just asked me,” I said. “I would have enjoyed it, and I would have done it for free.”
“I wouldn’t have let you do it for free.”
“Then I would have taken your money and blown it on good food and wine for us. I need olive oil,” I said, turning on the heat beneath the pan.