Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
All the nonsense in the kitchen hits me so hard when I think about Wilder spending the night. Even in a completely chaste sense of the word, it’s a big deal.
One time only. No tomorrow. Goodbye.
Ha fucking ha.
I knew that was a joke I was playing on myself, but I couldn’t have realized what a freaking joke it even was. Even if I haven’t spent years loving Wilder, I should have known that a single kiss, a single touch, a single… anything, and my heart would be a total goner. I’m falling for Wilder all over again, in a completely different way.
I’m not living this out in my head.
“Putting that fake beard and whole get-up back on is fairly time-consuming and inconvenient,” Wilder points out playfully, lightening up the heavy conversation and atmosphere in the kitchen. “Staying would be far more convenient than going and having to put it all back on tomorrow to come right back.”
Slain. That’s me, right here. Fully. Slain.
He wants to come back tomorrow? To see me? To hang out? To chill?
To eat my asshole again?
My nipples harden, and my vagina clenches.
I quickly get my derailed thoughts back on the rails before my face shares everything I’m thinking and my skin gets a very obvious sexy serotonin glow.
“We have late-night teatime,” Mom supplies helpfully after Wilder and I both go quiet, lost in our thoughts and suddenly both shy.
I don’t recall ever seeing Jackson Wilder speechless.
Or shy.
It’s adorable on him.
It’s just plain awkward on me, but he still looks at me with all that softness melting over the hard planes of his face. Seeing me fully, properly, and differently all over again for the first time.
“Tea would be nice.” I’ve never seen this man drink tea before. Ever.
Whether he adores tea in the quiet moments when there’s no one around, or whether he just wants to try it for the first time, it’s a reminder that there’s so much more to him that I don’t know either.
His arm is still wrapped around me, and his hand squeezes my shoulder. My mom smiles at us encouragingly, like she’s going to ship the hell out of us if we want there to be an us, despite her reservations and worries.
The three of us are quiet, but for just this moment, it’s comfortable. Peaceful.
Then the sneaky warmth creeps up and suffuses my chest again.
Right now, sitting around this table, Jackson Wilder isn’t the Wilder. I’m not five years older than him, he’s not my boss, there’s no history, and nothing is complicated.
Even if it just lasts for a few seconds, I’m going to enjoy the heck out of this.
Chapter eleven
Wilder
Iwake up to a cat sitting on the windowsill, ek ekk ekkkkkking at something outside. Birds, most likely. His little animated chatter is adorable. Or maybe it’s her chatter. I can’t remember all the names. This one is orange, but that’s about all I know. Pumpkin? That could be a unisex name. The cat is sitting with its tail tucked up under it, so it’s not like it’s broadcasting its balls, or lack thereof.
“Pumpkin? What’s up?”
I must have the name right because it turns its great big round head and slowly blinks at me before going back to whatever is so fascinating in the backyard.
It could also be a squirrel. Another cat? A dog?
Speaking of dogs, the telltale sound of clicking nails announces Woof Woof Dog’s presence coming down the hall.
A light knock sounds on the door. “Wilder? Are you awake? I thought I heard you talking to the cat. Sorry, I should have warned you that they know how to open and close the doors. Pretty much all of them, but by my count, Pumpkin is missing. Please tell me he didn’t wake you up by parking his butthole right on your mouth or by letting out one of those tuna farts. He sometimes gets gassy and… err… I’m just going to stop there. I’m rambling. If you weren’t awake before, you sure are already, and what a wake-up call that conversation is.”
I slide out of bed. I’m wearing my T-shirt with a towel around my hip. I open the door for her, but it’s Woof Woof Dog who races into the room, dancing around and contorting and wiggling his body in all angles. He looks like a dancing haybale and a mop had a baby.
It’s impossible not to fall straight in love with someone so sweet.
I’m talking about the dog right now.
But Carissa… is gorgeous. One look at her messy bun, glowing skin, and vintage rock T-shirt tucked strategically into high-rise jeans that end at her ankles, and I’m breathless.
“How are you doing?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe when I bend down to scratch Woof Woof Dog between the ears. His fur looks a little bit scraggly, but it’s actually quite soft.