Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
James tapped his keycard to the electric reader above the door handle and paused as he was pushing it open. His eyes met mine, deadly serious. “Now… are you going to behave yourself? Or should I ask the front desk if they have any handcuffs I could use on you?”
For some completely unknown reason, the image of James handcuffing me to the bed did… funny things to my insides. I cleared my throat. “No. That won’t be necessary.”
“We’ll see, won’t we? But maybe we could establish a few ground rules about sleep-grinding. Probably best to make sure we stick to doing it through our clothes for now. Though, I suppose if you’re planning to sleep in that lingerie I saw, it would hardly count as clothing.”
I elbowed him, face burning as I slid past him into the doorway. My small laugh betrayed me. “I hate you. Have I mentioned that?”
“While you’re awake, yes,” he said, closing the door. “But your sleep moans tell a different story.”
I groaned. I might not survive this man, but I wasn’t sure which form my death would take yet. Death by embarrassment? Death by arousal? Or maybe I’d just suffer lethal levels of annoyance and burst into a ball of flames.
Compared to the mortification of waking up with his concerningly large, erect member between my legs again… I might take the flames.
15
JAMES
Neither of us had wanted to drag out the awkward dance of getting ready for bed, so we'd both retreated under the covers way too early, pretending to be more tired than we were. Now, we had both been laying in silence for several minutes, both obviously awake but neither willing to acknowledge it.
The quiet felt charged, filled with unspoken words and the memory of the day’s events. For my part, I kept replaying the kiss at the tasting. I hadn’t planned it, of course, but fuck. I found myself wishing she was mine to kiss like that whenever I wanted. If she was, I wasn’t sure we’d ever leave this damn room.
And yet…
Before Katie, I wanted to find “the one”. I believed there was actually somebody “right” for me out there. Now, though? I felt like happy couples were just unaware—they were the ones who hadn’t had the misfortune yet of figuring out their partner’s fatal flaw.
Relationships were opportunities for pain. They were foolish acts of giving your trust to somebody you could almost guarantee would betray it. And why would I willingly wade into those waters?
But this strange flirtation between real and fake with Emma was… well, it was the best of both worlds, I guessed.
I got to play the doting boyfriend when we were in front of people. I got to let that old part of myself out again, but we both knew it wasn’t real. That meant the hurt wouldn’t be, either, when things inevitably blew up between us again.
It was safe.
Except something in my gut said I was playing with fire.
I ignored my gut, rolling my head to the side slightly so I could see her profile in the dark. The moonlight cast everything in soft shadows, and I found myself oddly mesmerized by a reflective spot of white on her bottom lip. I found myself wanting to reach out—to touch it with the pad of my thumb and follow it with a kiss.
A few more minutes passed while I silently studied her before her eyes opened and she spoke.
We’d been pretending to be going to sleep for nearly half an hour, but it seemed like she was tired of acting like she wasn’t awake.
"I need to understand something," she said, voice oddly tight. "That wedding in Ireland... why did it have to be so public? You could have told them privately, saved everyone the humiliation. Saved my—" She broke off.
Apparently, rule number three was out the window. I thought back on that day and the conflict I’d felt. It was a nearly impossible choice. “I didn’t know you were the wedding planner at first,” I said softly.
“I’m pretty sure I made it obvious,” she snapped.
“I was… I really enjoyed our time together that night. I don’t think I was in the most perceptive mindset. I thought you were just a really overly helpful relative, or something.”
“But you did know eventually. And you still wrecked the wedding. I’ve tried, but I can’t understand why you did it. What’s the point in making a big scene when you could just tell them before everybody travels and wastes their time and money? It seems needlessly cruel and dramatic.”
I felt a surprising amount of bitterness rise in my throat. They were all questions I’d asked myself, of course. Hundreds of times. I wasn’t a monster. I didn’t enjoy watching weddings go up in flames. But I did care about doing what I thought was right, and these were the methods I’d eventually decided worked best. "You ever try to tell someone their partner's cheating?" I asked quietly. “Or that their husband has a gambling addiction? Or their wife is hiding hundreds of thousands in debt and they’re about to be financially ruined? Or that he is wanted for a crime in another country?”