Total pages in book: 190
Estimated words: 181992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 181992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
It was never planned. He just … appeared in the stall sometimes—no prior warning, not even a hint that he might join me. I got the feeling he simply liked to keep me on my toes.
My movements a little clunky and uncoordinated, I threw back the covers, edged out of bed, and carefully stood—so damn thankful the room didn’t spin. My footsteps dragging, I padded to the ensuite bathroom. Inside, there was a whole lot of fumbling and weaving as I did my business.
I winced when I got a good look at my reflection in the mirror. Dear Lord. It was galling to know that Dax had seen me like this.
My eyes were mere slits. My face was all puffy. Smudges of mascara were beneath my eyes and smeared across my cheeks. And my hair … oh, my hair. I wouldn’t be surprised to find baby birds in it.
Shit, the baby bird! He’d better have been kidding about Gypsy’s most recent “gift.”
Tugging open the door of the wall-mounted cabinet, I dug two painkillers out of a small bottle and quickly downed them. Silently praying my headache passed fast, I took a swift shower. As expected, he didn’t join me.
Having wrapped a fluffy towel around myself. I padded back into the bedroom and—
I halted.
On my nightstand stood a tall glass of water and also a glass of what looked to be coconut water. My stupid heart squeezed, so easily touched by the little things he did. Which made me feel far too vulnerable; granted him too much power. Neither of which I could do anything about.
In between pulling on comfy clothes and brushing my wet hair, I took swigs of both drinks until each glass was empty. Downstairs, I found Dax making coffee in the kitchen. The smell upset my queasy stomach. Fuck wine.
He looked at me, taking in my poor posture and no doubt haggard face, and his lips winged up. “You look more ill than you did when you were actually ill.”
I snarled. “I was about to thank you for these,” I began, tipping my chin at the glasses I held, “but now I’m not gonna.” He could go swivel.
His amusement not dimming, he drank from his mug. “Did you take painkillers?”
“Yes,” I pretty much grunted. “They haven’t kicked in yet.” Setting the glasses on the counter, I yanked open the dishwasher. “Stop smirking.”
“It’s not my fault you’re cute when you’re hungover and crabby.”
He didn’t say “cute” like it was a compliment. It was more of a patronizing statement. Like I was a bunny trying to squeeze through a small hole. Dick.
“Tell me Gypsy didn’t really kill a chick,” I pled.
“If I did, it would be a lie.”
I groaned and loaded the glasses into the dishwasher. “I’m just gonna pretend you’re full of shit.”
“All right, you do that.” He chugged down more coffee. “I’m going to take a shower. I ordered breakfast. It’ll be here soon. Try not to fall back asleep while I’m gone.”
I could give him no guarantees.
As usual, he showered and dressed in record time. Our food arrived shortly after he returned downstairs. Once we’d wheeled the trolley onto the patio, I slumped in my chair, my shoulders hunched. I learned he’d ordered me a full greasy breakfast, knowing it might help with the hangover.
I sniffed. “I’d thank you if you weren’t finding so much humor in my disposition.”
He shrugged, unbothered, the high and mighty bastard.
I managed to eat more than I’d thought I would. By that point, my stomach was beginning to settle and my headache wasn’t quite as aggressive. But I still felt like shit warmed up.
I rested my head on the cool table with a low, pitiful moan. A particular rumbly sound made my shoulders tense. “That better not be laughter I hear. Have a little compassion. It’s your job as my husband to feel sorry for me.”
“My job?” he echoed, still amused.
I straightened in my seat, narrowing my eyes. “You weren’t being judgy last night, no, you were all too happy to engage in drunk sex.”
“Hmm, I’ll bet you’ll never look at your hairbrush in quite the same way now that it’s been used to paddle your ass.”
I felt my cheeks flush. He was right on that. I’d tackled my hair with one of my other brushes this morning. “I’m not sure what bugs me more. That I let you paddle my ass, or that I didn’t realize you were actually using my hairbrush until after it was over.”
He chuckled low and deep. “Just be glad I didn’t use the side with the bristles. I thought about it.”
I felt my lips part. “You wouldn’t honestly do that.”
His brow slowly inched up. “Are you sure about that?”
No. No, I wasn’t. Because he was not the most predictable of lovers, and he had no issue doing things in bed that drove me nuts. “You’d really scratch my skin to shit like that?”