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)
Maybe the breakfast theater is a little about me after all.
Her face is so animated, and I find I could watch her talk for hours just to see the shapes her luscious mouth makes. I even enjoy watching her garnish her toast. She has such elegant hands, and her fingers exhibit such grace in their application of the gloopy, sand-colored substance.
Yes, breakfast times are a joy. If only I could offer her the same pleasure, because it seems soapy shower time has not improved her mood.
“Stop watching,” she murmurs, licking stickiness from her fingers.
“Today isn’t a chocolate day?” I ask, ignoring my thickening cock.
She looks up without raising her head, her pleasure subdued but evident. “Creeper.”
“I prefer observant.”
“Observe that I wanted a change.”
“Fair enough. Do you have an evening dress?” I ask after a pause.
“What for?” Her eyes turn suspicious.
“There’s an event coming up in a couple of weeks we’ll attend.”
“Let me guess. I’ve passed the friends test, so you’re stepping things up.”
“If you like,” I answer simply, forcing my thoughts from enjoyment to purpose. Just because I haven’t issued her a written schedule doesn’t mean we aren’t on a tight timeline.
“And I guess with you being so forthcoming in the information stakes right now, this is about the guy with the house—the estate?”
“Yes.” I give in to a smile. “How perceptive of you.”
“Not even, because I still don’t know how you think I’m going to be able to convince him to sell you the place. I feel like I’m missing something.”
A pinprick of discomfort pokes at my chest. I rub it like an itch. “Just remember our backstory, and be yourself.” I look down at my cup, twisting the handle twenty degrees. The way I find myself watching her sometimes makes me think he won’t take much persuading.
Eve applies her attention to her toast again. With violence this time.
“Are you worried?”
“About lying to someone who hasn’t done anything to me, anything at all? What would make you think that?”
“I’m sorry,” I say impulsively. Worse, I think I mean it. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this.”
“Sorry enough to let me leave?”
“Eve,” I chastise. “You’re hardly my captive. You can leave anytime.”
“Back to Connecticut,” she mutters.
“That would be your alternative.” I’m not sorry about keeping her here. I can’t see how I’ll ever regret it.
“I guess you’re holding up your part of this ridiculous bargain,” she mutters, more like an insult than a concession.
“You’re not going to have much toast left at this rate,” I remark as she continues to attack the slice like it insulted her.
With a pointed look, she violently bites off one corner.
“I’m glad you aren’t thinking of me.”
Her throat moves with a deep swallow as she sets it back to her plate. “Mitch can’t eat peanut butter,” she announces, seemingly out of nowhere. At his invasion, an iron fist tightens around my entrails. “He’s allergic.”
“Very badly?”
She flicks a shoulder. “He carries an EpiPen with him wherever he goes.”
“What a shame.” As in, what a shame I hadn’t known this earlier.
“The shame is I gave up more than peanut butter for him. I like peanut butter. I hate my ex.”
“That’s understandable.” This is a first, the mention of hate. And a first for me, as I realize I’ve been unfair to her, simply because she hasn’t been angry enough for my liking.
“I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone before,” she says with a brittle smile. “But here I am, eating peanut butter while imagining him suffering a painful death.”
I laugh, though turn it into a cough. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her. I think it might be relief. It isn’t all me—it might not even be half my fault.
Except, I’ve treated her little better than the arsehole did.
“That’s bad, isn’t it?” Her expression twists comically.
“No worse than death by cab.”
“I love peanut butter, but not for the taste. I love it because of what it might do to him.” She examines her toast, then slides me a provocative glance. “Aren’t you going to ask why today?”
“I’m almost frightened to.”
“Liar.” Now satisfaction flickers across her face. “He cheated on me. Humiliated me. Wasted my time and my energy.” No mention of love. “But it’s only this morning that I feel like I could watch him choke.”
“Delayed grief?” I hedge.
“Oh, I’m not grieving,” she says. “I’m pissed.” Reaching for her phone, she slides her thumb across the screen. She offers it to me. “This is the same gossip column you showed me.”
“Yes, I know.” No need to mention I’ve been keeping an eye on it.
A Little Bird Told Us . . .
Mitch Atherton, property developer and cheating Pulse Tok groom, suggests he might not have been the only one in the relationship up to no good.
“Remember the first day you turned up at the clinic? There was a woman there. A journalist.” I nod, and Eve carries on. “Una Smith. I guess she decided, when I wouldn’t speak to her, she’d get her scoop from another horse’s mouth.”