Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
“No, you were much, much worse, darlin’,” Colt drawled.
I gigglesnorted.
Fourteen
As the days went by, I fell in love with more moments than I could count.
I fell in love with our mornings, whether we ate in a rush before they were off to work, or they skipped work and breakfast by the pool morphed into brunch and lunch. If Colt made breakfast, Rosa insisted on making snacks. The two formed a strange connection based on cooking and one-upping each other. And if Rosa reached her limit with Colt’s “my way or the highway,” she switched on mother mode, at which point Colt’s Southern manners made him heel and be respectful.
I fell in love with the evenings we went out together and tried new restaurants. I discovered quirks and routines of Colt and Lucas that they’d cultivated in the eight years they’d been together. If anything was served with black olives, Colt handed his over to Lucas. In turn, Lucas gave up his coleslaw and pickles. He shuddered in distaste when Colt made yummy noises. And there was more. The little things. Colt would reach for the salt, and Lucas would remind him that too much sodium was bad. Sometimes, Colt said something along the lines of, “I can’t enjoy anythin’!” Sometimes, Colt got even with a made-up “I read that kale causes cancer, so you enjoy your fuckin’ cancer salad” that made Lucas turn to Google.
I fell in love with the tiny moments that never ended up in photo albums. Like the time I stumbled out of the bathroom and Colt caught me as he smirked and went, “Was it gravity or your shadow this time?” Or the time Colt was making meatballs in marinara sauce and Lucas stole one when Colt ran out to buy more butter. When he returned, Lucas managed to convince Colt he must’ve miscalculated the meatballs. Because Lucas would never steal food like that. The mere idea was preposterous. Or…the time Lucas came home from work and tossed me a bag of Cheetos and I went to heaven. He and I shared the bag before Colt got home, at which point we pretended to be monsters and attacked Colt with our Cheeto-dusted fingers in the hallway.
As Colt threw his once-white tee into the hamper, he told Lucas, “Probably a lot of sodium in that, but that’s none of my business.”
I…I was just falling in love.
Fuck.
* * *
“Why is it important that I choose?” Lucas asked curiously.
“Because it is!” I held up the two different plates.
We weren’t repainting anything in the kitchen, so I’d thought we could pick out new plates and silverware.
“Daddy’s in charge, remember?” I didn’t want to admit I was redecorating the house with the hope that they’d like it so much, they’d stay. If I had more time, maybe I could trick them into falling in love with me.
So…blue plates or these white ones with black paint splashes?
Lucas cleared his throat and decided to humor me, and he shifted his gaze to the plates on the shelves. There were two aisles in the store with nothing but china. I wasn’t leaving without a new set.
“What do you think about these?” He showed me a multicolored side plate, its design reminding me of Mexico. Rustic reds and faded blues in a bunch of circles. “What you could do is put together your own set. For example, a colorful side plate on a white regular plate.” He showed me by putting the smaller dish on a plain white one. “Then perhaps a blue or red bowl that matches the patterns here.”
I liked it. Question was, did Lucas? “Would you call that your style?” I prodded.
“I would, I think. For this, yes.”
“Then we’re getting that.” Jeesh, it shouldn’t be this difficult. Just move in with me and love me already. “Help me pick out wineglasses, please.”
“Sweetheart, why is this—”
“You ask too many questions,” I huffed.
He lifted a brow in warning. “Manners, Kit.”
Crap. I slumped my shoulders. “I’m sorry. This is just important to me, and I value your opinion. Can we please go look at wineglasses now?”
“Sure.” He sounded anything but. “You don’t drink wine, though.”
You and Colt do.
* * *
One Saturday, after Colt had casually put the suggestion on the table, we started painting the living room. Ourselves. Without professional painters nearby.
It was nuts, but Colt claimed he’d done it countless times before.
We had the paint. The furniture had been pushed into the dining room. The floor was covered in plastic, and Lucas had applied tape around outlets and such. I never would’ve thought of that. Lastly, we had two hot Doms wearing only jeans. I could work with this.
“Wait!” I panicked a bit as Colt ran his rolling thing through the paint thing, and I swallowed nervously. “Are we all in agreement that we want this color?”