Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“And I declined.”
“Mother.”
“Victoria.” Grandma’s looking increasingly annoyed. “I already declined the offer. The subject is closed.”
“This makes our family look bad.” Mom, as usual, refuses to drop it. “The Tanners built the Beacon, and a Tanner should be the one to speak at the reopening. Say a proper goodbye. If we say nothing, it looks like we’re just handing it over.”
“We sold it, dear.” Grandma gives her a pointed look. “Primarily because neither you nor your siblings wanted to take on the responsibility of renovating it. So, please, let the new owner reap the rewards of her efforts and enjoy her moment in the sun. I had nothing to do with this reopening and I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking any credit for it.”
I hide a smile. Go, Grandma.
“Good morning, dear.” Grandma catches sight of me in the doorway. “Adelaide stopped by the bakery in town this morning and picked up some fresh croissants and pastries.”
“Oh, nice.” I feel my mother’s eyes on me as I go to the counter to assess the goodies our housekeeper brought.
“Just take one,” Mom warns. “We have a dress fitting today and you don’t want to be bloated for it.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ll try my best not to eat this entire platter.”
Grandma chuckles.
“You slept in,” my mother says.
I don’t miss her frown of reproach. Awesome. Now my sleeping habits are an issue. I genuinely can’t do anything right in her eyes. Well, unless we’re in public together. Then suddenly I’m the most wonderful, accomplished, thoughtful daughter in the world. That’s the image Mom needs to project. That we’re best friends. That my achievements, few as they are at this current time in my life, are all a credit to her.
“I had a late night.” I duck my head and hope they don’t notice my blush, aka the curse of the red hair.
Tate snuck into my bedroom again last night. We hooked up again, and it was better than the first time.
And the second time.
And the third, fourth, fifth …
I’ve seen him every night this week.
Last night, though, was one for the books. He went down on me for almost an hour, his mouth voracious, one hand squeezing and kneading my breasts while the other pushed two fingers inside me. I was biting my lip to stop from being too loud. Tate is very good at what he does.
Truthfully, his breadth of experience is overwhelming sometimes. He’s so comfortable, not just with his own body, but mine. There’s no hesitation when he touches me, only the confident hands of a man who knows what he’s doing.
The one thing he refuses to do, however, is freaking have sex with me.
What? Who’s bitter?
Okay, fine. I’m not actually bitter. I’m impatient. Tate keeps reminding me we’re taking it slow, but part of me wonders if he’s still too scared to be my first. Not just because of the supposed pressure, but for what it may mean for us. Peyton concurred with that suspicion when we texted about it earlier. She said men are terrified women will immediately expect promise rings and I love yous once they lose it to a guy. I told Tate I wasn’t expecting a relationship out of this, but I have a feeling he doesn’t trust that.
“Yes. It did sound like a late night for you.” Grandma’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “I heard you talking long past midnight. You had a friend over?” she prompts, looking like she’s fighting a smile.
Shit. I thought we were being quiet, but evidently not.
“No, I didn’t have anyone over,” I lie. And there’s no way Grandma could’ve seen him last night, since Tate still insists on climbing through the window when he comes over, claiming he doesn’t want to bump into my family. I think he just enjoys the sneaky element to it. The excitement. What I’m learning about Tate, the more time I spend with him, is how much he loves leaning into his playful nature.
“I was just watching a movie,” I add. “I didn’t realize I had the volume on so loud. I’m sorry if it woke you.”
Her eyes sparkle. I know she knows I’m lying. “My mistake. Well, then you really ought to lower that volume, dear.”
Mom, of course, believes my lies. “Of course she didn’t have anyone over, Mother. So late at night?”
In Mom’s mind, there’s no way her daughter could possibly have a guy over. Which is ironic since supposedly I look like a bimbo, soooo, apropos to her logic, there should be a line outside my bedroom door.
I grab a plate and a croissant, then reach for the butter. I expect a comment from Mom about going easy on the butter, but it doesn’t come. She’s busy checking her phone now.
I join them at the table, my own phone coming to life the moment I sit down. I peer at it, anticipation dancing through me when I notice the email subject line.