Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“What are you up to now?” she asks. “What do you do for work?”
Why this question? I can’t tell her. If I told her the truth…
I shrug and try to be evasive. “I handle a few contract issues for men I know overseas.”
She narrows her eyes. “That doesn’t sound fishy at all.”
I smile. “You asked. I gave you an answer.”
“Right,” she says, returning the smile. “So you do contract work for men you know in Ireland. What kind of contract work?”
“The kind I can’t talk about,” I say cryptically.
She bites her lip, looking away.
“What is it?” I ask.
Our eyes meet. And there it is again, that slow-burning heat that coils between us.
“I was just remembering something else.” Her voice lowers and becomes breathy.
“Hmm?” I reach for her feet, taking one gently into my hand. I rub the pads of my thumbs along the arch.
She moans.
Oh, Jesus fecking Christ.
When her eyes roll back like that as she moans, it makes my cock throb.
“Does that feel good?” I ask, my voice low.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Do it again.”
It sounds like she’s asking for more than just a foot rub. And Christ, what I want to do to her… now that I’ve got her alone.
“What do you do at work, Emma?” I ask gently, as if I don’t know. “What have you done with yourself?” I feel like an arsehole feigning ignorance.
“I’m a writer,” she says with a sigh. “A writer with a deadline… and I’m completely and utterly blocked. I have no idea what to do about it.”
That’s a lie, but I don’t call her out on it.
“What does it mean to be blocked?” I ask.
“It means you stare at your computer for hours and write, like, three words,” she grumbles. Her voice shakes, though, like she’s going to cry.
I press the pad of my thumb into the arch of her foot.
“Oh god.” She moans. “Keep doing that, and I might be unblocked again…”
I pick up her other foot and start rubbing that one too.
At first, I was checking for warmth, but now that it’s in my hand, I don’t want to let it go.
She’s so soft. So petite.
“And it’s not going well for you?” I ask.
“No,” she says, with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “Not at all.”
“Right,” I say, getting to my feet. “Let’s do something about that.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Owen
She worked all morning, locked in her little office. I wondered if she’d feel strange with me here, but if she does, she hasn’t let on.
But I can’t tell if she’s getting anywhere. It’s almost dinner now, and dusk paints the room in amber light.
“How’d it go?”
She only groans.
“Glass of wine?” I ask her.
“That sounds delectable,” she says, smiling up at me. “I think that ought to warm me through, hmm?”
“Aye.”
I rise and head to the fridge, and pull out a bottle of wine. The kind that costs more than I used to make in a week, but is worth every damn penny.
“This is my favorite,” she says, her brows lifting. “How did you know?”
I shrug, brushing her shoulder. “Lucky guess.”
I don’t want to terrify her. I want her to trust me.
“Before you went to the office, you were telling me about another memory,” I prompt gently.
Her expression shifts. “God, it’s not a happy one… but you just look kind of—” she stammers, cheeks blushing. “You look, I don’t know.”
“For a romance writer, you blush awful quickly, don’t you?”
“Sorry,” she whispers. “Somehow, it’s easier getting the words on the page than saying them with my mouth. Well. I mean, in theory. Not like I’m getting the words I need.”
I lean in closer, resting her feet in my lap again.
“Tell me the memory.”
She swallows. “It was a family Christmas party, right? I was—what was I? A sophomore in high school?”
“I think a freshman,” I say because I know exactly what she’s talking about. “We were outside. Chopping wood?”
“We?” She laughs. “You were. You were shirtless, chopping firewood with your cousins. All of you were kind of showing off how hard you could swing the axe. But I think… you were really showing off your abs.”
Her voice drops. “My mother caught me looking at you.”
I make a low rumble in my chest. “What did she do?”
“She…” Her voice trembles. “She pulled me away. It hurt. She pushed me against the wall and screamed at me. Said, ‘That’s your brother. You can’t look at your brother like that.’”
I shake my head.
“God. I’ve carried that shame for so long.”
“Why?” I ask her, meeting her eyes. “Jesus Christ. I was never your fucking brother. Why did they have to foist that on us? As if we were some goddamn happy family that sprouted from the damn ground.”
She giggles. “No. But you acted like it, didn’t you?”
“Did I?” I ask.
She shrugs in response.
I stare at her and wonder if she’s thinking what I am.