Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Ah, well, that makes sense now. “So you’re saying he’s both devious and kinky.” I try not to grimace at my mouthful of cold coffee.
“I’m saying those are traits he picked up here. You did drag me into the shower this morning.”
“If you weren’t such a Peeping Tom, you wouldn’t have been there in the first place.” It wasn’t quite shower sex, more soapy fun. Fingers, lips, and tongues. Kissing and rubbing in all the right places. We’d showered together last night, once I’d stopped cursing and she’d stopped dying from laughter, then spent the night in my bed. I’m not even sad the time was spent sleeping, because Eve Fairfax is a delightful snuggler. It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time, not that it means anything. Eve might be too good for Atherton, but she is not meant for me.
Reaching for the bowl of blueberries, she lobs one in my direction. I catch it in my mouth.
“Asshole,” she says, not at all like she means it.
“Was that an offer?”
“What?”
I pat the table. “Bend over, and I’ll tongue your delectable rear.” Fuck it too.
“Oliver, don’t.”
“If you don’t try, how will you know if you’re into it?”
“I don’t remember Bo inviting you to bend over the table.”
“Funny. I prefer red-gold Americans over goldendoodles, especially ones whose taste I could drown in.” Under the table, my cock begins to stiffen.
“We’re not . . .” Her expression falters. “That was . . . a onetime thing.”
I find myself smiling and frowning at the same time. I’m not confused. I just don’t think she really means it. I thought we reached an understanding as she took my extended hand and stepped into the shower this morning. I thought we put only tonight behind us. Fuck it, I want more than last night. I want this morning, tonight, Tuesday next week. I want—
I halt the thought. Breathe. Pause. Reevaluate.
I want her. Want to experience every inch of her from now until I have the keys to Northaby House. Because that’s the way it has to be.
“Tell me what the problem is, Eve.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She twitches the linen napkin next to her plate.
“I like you, and maybe I flatter myself, but I think you like me too.”
She slides me a skeptical look, but I push on, because fuck that.
“Why does sex between us need to be an issue?”
“We didn’t have sex.” Her denial falls quickly. “This isn’t a relationship, or even a situationship—this isn’t anything.”
“You were happy not to define things last night.”
“But I did define it. I had to. Because you didn’t ask me to move in with you for those kinds of reasons. Hell, you didn’t even ask me to move in. This . . . line crossing is dangerous. We’re not friends, Oliver.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“We’re not even roommates.”
“Yes, okay, I forced your hand,” I say, tamping back my frustration. “But hasn’t being here with me worked out for you? I’ve given you a place to stay—”
“Given isn’t the description I’d use.”
“I’ve shielded you from Mitchell and gone to considerable trouble and expense to smooth over the issues with your visa.”
“You aren’t doing me a favor. At best, it was part of our agreement.”
“All right, that’s true, but at least I can be honest. I can admit to liking you. I like having you here.” A thorned knot catches in my chest, and I know I sound like a petulant child.
“Well, there will be no more having after this morning,” she says, snatching up the silver dome housing a toast rack. “This will be a strictly platonic arrangement from here on in.”
“That’s a shame,” I murmur, as my brain refers to my earlier statement: fuck that. Sex is like that jar of chocolate spread her hand hovers over. Once the seal is broken, there’s no stopping you from dipping back in. I frown as I watch her select the peanut butter instead.
“What?” she demands, catching me studying her.
The table is set with white linens and fine china, sparkling glass and silverware. There’s even a tasteful flower centerpiece. It’s all a little theatrical, and none of this is for me. Breakfast before Eve was usually something eaten on the go. These days, I find I’m happy to linger. She’s a pain in the arse in a lot of ways: impulsive, slightly chaotic, and as stubborn as a box of rocks; but I find my day is greatly improved by watching Eve put things into her mouth. Her hair seems to have a light and life of its own in the morning sunshine. I enjoy watching as she slides it to one side before addressing her meal. The action reminds me of a barrister slipping on her wig or a chef strapping on an apron: a signal that she means business.