Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Oh. OH.
His lips are soft, oh so soft, and then he’s gently parting my lips with them, sliding his tongue inside my mouth as he backs us up against the wall. Maybe we’re not being very quiet, but I can’t be bothered with that at the moment. Luke’s kissing me with unrestrained hunger, and it’s so hot I lose track of everything beyond it. When our tongues meet, I moan softly into his mouth. The sensation is too perfect.
His movements turn possessive, his body hard against mine.
He’s sweaty from his workout. I’m sticky from baking. We’re quite a pair.
It’s just a kiss and yet I’m melting into him, opening my mouth wider, welcoming him in. Deeper, harder—whatever he wants.
Then suddenly, he breaks off, panting hard, looking down at me like I’m the problem, like I’m the reason there’s a scowl on his face.
“Is…is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
He doesn’t even answer. He just studies me with his surly expression.
I have to press my lips together to keep from smiling.
“OH HARPER, GOOD MORNING!” Tate shouts from the kitchen with an exaggerated, emphatic voice. It’s clearly her way of warning us we’re not being nearly as subtle or quiet as we think we are.
Luke lets his head fall as he laughs. “I’ve lost my damn mind.”
“If it helps…so have I.”
He looks up at me, and his harsh expression has finally broken. I’d kiss him again, but at that inconvenient moment, my timer goes off in the kitchen and Harper comes bounding around the corner to give her dad a good morning hug.
I spend the late morning and early afternoon manning the lemonade stand with Harper while Luke and Tate go into town to have lunch together. I bet it’s pretty rare that the two of them get any kind of alone time, so I don’t mind hanging back with the kiddo.
We go a whole hour without anyone coming around to purchase anything, even with our signs posted out on the main road. Harper doesn’t let that bring her down though. She has a tracing pad set up with markers and pencils, and when she needs a break from that, she makes me watch her loop around in a circle, doing cartwheels in the grass.
Eventually though, an older woman drives up in her sleek Bentley. She has coifed white hair and a navy blazer and scarf.
“I heard there’s some lemonade for sale,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.
She buys two cups of lemonade, a few cookies, and three loaves of my bread (one brioche, one sourdough, one focaccia). An hour later, another car pulls up, and the woman who steps out tells us her friend sent her.
“She raved about the lemonade, but she said I absolutely could not walk away without getting some of your bread.”
By the time we’re done, we’ve had two more customers and we completely sold out of bread. Harper can barely believe she finally has enough for her Barbie Dreamhouse.
“My dad’s not going to believe it!”
Tuesday evening, Tate invites me to join her on a run because I mentioned to her that morning while we were baking that I had recently gotten back into exercising.
It does not go well.
I should have known if she barely broke a sweat while running nine miles, we’d maybe not be the best running partners. We make it one mile in, side by side, but it’s like she’s merely strolling along compared to my max-effort, haul-ass sprint. She’s carrying on a full conversation, meanwhile I’m over here fighting for my life.
“Why don’t you go on ahead,” I tell her, mid-pant. “I’ve got a little cramp in my side.”
“Yeah! Okay! I’ll loop back and catch you!”
The moment she turns the corner, I bend forward, grip my knees, and gasp for air like I’m taking my dying breaths.
So clearly, she’s athletic. I suppose it runs in the family.
Wednesday, we decide to head to the beach. Originally, I was going to stay back, but the three of them insisted I join, and it just got to the point where I was resisting for resistance’s sake. Obviously, the work-life separation is now utterly obliterated. I’m not just Luke’s chef. I mean, sure, I’m still on his payroll, and yes, I’m still working and cooking in his home, but more often than not, there’s a second pair of hands helping me with prep and with cleanup at the end of the day. And quite frankly, the man cannot keep his hands off me. He corners me again as we’re getting everything loaded up to head to the beach. I’m in my room, changing into my bathing suit when he knocks and lets himself in, closing the door swiftly behind him.
I laugh and grab my bikini strings behind my back so my top doesn’t fall off. Thankfully, I already have my bottoms on.