Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Okay, so we can have our privacy. Given the fact we can’t seem to keep our hands off each other, it’s just best her parents stay in the guesthouse when they visit.
Leonie is in California as well. She chose a beautiful retirement community not far from our house, and she comes to dinner a few times a week. She’s met a man at the retirement home, almost ten years her junior, and I tease her relentlessly about it. She insists he’s just a friend, but the way she blushes tells me otherwise. Then I’ll see her share a look with Bailey, and I know she’s told Bailey more about him than she would share with me. I, in turn, hound Bailey to give me details, but she refuses, citing the rule that women must have some secrets amongst themselves.
I think that’s bullshit, but whatever.
We live in a gated community, and the security guard opens the rolling gate to let me through with a jaunty wave. I drive my Porsche along the gorgeously landscaped streets to our home and into the three-car garage. The Range Rover I bought Bailey is there, and, yes, that only came after a series of arguments. She protested she had a perfectly workable car, and she didn’t need anything else. I wasn’t sure the damn thing would survive the trip from Vegas, so we had a pretty spirited fight over it.
In case it wasn’t clear, I won, and I played dirty to get the victory. It may have had something to do with heavy-handed foreplay and a refusal to let her come until she agreed to it, but I regret nothing.
Truth be told, she doesn’t either. It was a fucking spectacular orgasm.
I enter through the mudroom, which leads into the kitchen. Something smells delicious, but I can’t quite place it. Bailey is a fucking fantastic cook, and she works hard to have dinner ready for me when I get home. It seems sort of old-fashioned, but she insists on doing it since she’s at home.
But fuck… she’s working her ass off at home. Not only is she still operating as my assistant—albeit working remotely from the house—but she’s also started an online MBA program. She’s not sure what she wants to do with it, but if I have any say, she’s going to have a spot at Blackwood.
Bailey’s not in the kitchen, but her laptop is on the island counter. I dump my car keys and phone there, intent on finding her, but as I’m walking through the great room, movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention.
In the backyard, she kneels in one of the flower beds bordering the pool, pulling weeds. I take a moment to watch because she’s fucking adorable and hot at the same time. She has on a wide-brimmed hat to protect her skin from the sun, a t-shirt smeared with dirt on the front, and tiny shorts that bare the bottoms of her ass cheeks as she bends to pull little green shoots.
I don’t think she’s out there weeding to help beautify our backyard. Bailey doesn’t have a green thumb, and she despises outdoor work. She’s happy to let the yard maintenance people handle this shit each week.
But I do recognize that expression. A minor amount of consternation, a bit of daydreaming, and a hefty amount of determination.
Bailey has her thinking cap on. I know it well.
I move to the double French doors that lead onto the patio. The minute I step out, she hears me and twists around.
I get a smile before she returns to weeding. “Hey you.”
“What has your pretty head all tied up in knots?” I ask as I walk across the concrete toward her. More insecure men might get riled up by such a short, dismissive greeting, but not me. I can tell Bailey’s preoccupied, and it’s nothing personal.
She huffs out a breath and sits back on her heels, her smile turning wry. “How is it you always get me?”
I shrug as I sit on the edge of a chaise lounge. “It’s beyond me at times. So what’s wrong?”
Bailey shakes her head as if she’s not quite sure, but attempts to explain. “I’m working on my organizational behavior project, and I don’t think my outcome is correct.”
“Well,” I say in a somewhat suggestive tone. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap, and we’ll discuss it?”
Bailey smirks with a slight eye roll. “If I sit on your lap, my problem will not get discussed. It’s entirely possible dinner will also get burned because we’ll lose track of time.”
She would not be wrong about either of those things.
And as much as I would love to lose myself in between Bailey’s legs, I’d rather help her with her problem and eat a good meal she worked hard on. I stand from the chaise, then hold a hand out. “Let’s go inside. We’ll talk while we finish getting dinner ready.”