Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“You could bring this into the dining room,” I said, touching the darker green cabinet. “Then it all kinds of meshes.”
“That was the way I was leaning,” he agreed. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Wine?” he asked, waving toward the appliances, then the wine on the table.
“I will never say no to a coffee,” I told him as I made my way over toward the table, pulling items out of the reusable bags. “So what are you making?” I asked, glancing back over my shoulder at him, finding him already watching me after he got the coffee brewing.
“Four cheese ravioli,” he told me. “From scratch,” he added. “Your favorite.”
“You remember that?” I asked, my heart feeling a little melty. “And from scratch? I feel spoiled,” I admitted. “Can I do anything?” I asked as he grabbed me a cup, adding cream and sugar to it, knowing that was how I liked it. Then pouring the coffee after it beeped.
“Not yet,” he told me, stirring my coffee, then handing it to me. “Do you want to go look around while I get things started?” he asked.
“Do I want to spend a couple of minutes snooping around your house unsupervised?” I asked, eyes bright. “With permission? Absolutely. Totally saves me from pretending to get lost on the way back from the bathroom,” I added, putting my coffee cup back down.
“Take it with you,” he urged. “I don’t ever want this to feel like a white-glove house,” he told me. “I want everyone eating and drinking and living in it.”
“I like that,” I told him. But, somehow, I heard something else between my words. I like you. Because I did. More than I even wanted to admit to myself. “I will be back with lots of things to judge you on,” I said with a teasing smile before heading off.
As I walked through the dining room, I heard him go into the living room, putting on a record, and the crooning sounds of the male singer filled the downstairs, only seeming to add to the magic as I heard him puttering around in the kitchen as I continued my inspection as I sipped the coffee he made for me and tried not to picture myself and my babies in every room of his house.
The lower floor had the kitchen, dining, living room, a half bath, and a small study that was empty save for the gallons of paint, rollers, and various tools scattered around.
The stairs gave a creaking groan as I went up them, and I decided that I loved the sound as I made my way to the top landing.
The upper floor had four bedrooms and two full baths. The three bedrooms weren’t huge, but more than big enough for some kids and their toys.
The primary bedroom, though, was very roomy. And, interestingly enough, fully finished.
I guess that made sense. If you were going to live in a place while fixing it up, you wanted a few of the main rooms—the kitchen, living room, and the bedroom—to feel homey and complete.
The rich wood of the floor matched the wood on the coffered ceiling and even the wood of the large bed complete with intricately carved pillars that led up to a canopy that was draped in buttery-soft cream linen.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I made my way toward the bed, placing my mug on the coaster set on the nightstand, then lowered myself onto the bed, stretching out, finding it both firm, but plush, the kind of place begging to have someone sleep there. Or make love there. To sit up holding each other there.
This time, I didn’t fight the images as they came to me.
Ones of Nino standing off the side of the bed, removing his clothes to my greedy gaze as I waited for him, naked and ready. Of him coming over me, sealing his lips to mine, exploring me with fingers and lips, with tongue and teeth, then coming over me again, pressing me into the mattress as he surged inside me.
I forced myself up off the bed, the ache between my thighs becoming too painful to keep allowing my fantasies to run wild.
I made my way through his bathroom before, finally, making my way back downstairs.
I found him in the kitchen where I’d left him, the scents of spices—rosemary, basil, and oregano—mingling with the tang of tomato sauce, and the scent of dough, meeting my nose and making my belly grumble.
He was standing at the island, his shirtsleeves rolled up—something I found almost intolerably sexy—running a pizza cutter through the dough he’d already made up and rolled out. How long had I been exploring his house? And having sexual fantasies in his bed?
Placing my cup in the sink, I drew his attention over to me.