Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
As the silence stretches, my stupid emotions build. But I refuse to cry. He’s not mine. Blair should cry. Not me.
Would it kill him to say something? Hey, it was fun, but wrong. No hard feelings?
Or …
I’m an asshole for cheating on my fiancée. I’m going to break up with her immediately.
He won’t say that because he loves her. This isn’t contrived. It’s real and messy. I’m sure anyone on the sidelines would think of a dozen better moves to make, but it’s like me yelling at Chris to wake up and swim to the surface, to fight, and live. It’s always easier to live a perfect life when it’s not yours.
“I don’t trust you,” Murphy says.
I freeze while tugging off my gloves.
He dries his hands, leaning against the island. “And I”—he chuckles while shaking his head—“I feel emotionally mature for having the courage to say that to you because I’m ashamed. It’s been eight years. You’ve spent so long overcoming everything you went through. And I’ve moved on. Yet, when I’m with you, I’m scared out of my fucking mind that you’re—” His voice catches and his throat bobs as his eyes redden.
Chris died, but Murphy is the emotional carnage.
“I hurt you. And you think I could do it again.” I set the gloves aside.
He stares at his feet, then he nods.
“But it’s more than that. You love her.”
Another nod.
“Then it’s settled. You’ll marry Blair as planned. And in twenty years, she’ll hire you a homemaker, and you’ll not even remember my name.”
“Fuck you,” he says, missing the humor in my joke.
“I think that’s a bad idea since you’re engaged.”
“Well, that’s all I want to do.”
My jaw unhinges, but nothing comes out.
Murphy pushes off the counter and cups my face, bringing his lips so close to mine I almost whimper when he stops. His thumb traces my lower lip. “Hi,” he whispers.
Damn him.
I barely get “hi” out before he kisses me. My mind swims, and tears burn my eyes because he’s erasing eight years with one kiss. We’re back in his rental listening to Lesley Gore sing “Misty.” Reality goes out the door. Life is sweeter when days are filled with oldies on vinyl and afternoon delight.
Somewhere there’s a tiny part of my brain holding on to rational thoughts, and they’re fighting to remind me of trivial things like Murphy is not mine. But the other ninety-nine percent of my mind homes in on one thing: his tongue making deliciously languid strokes against mine.
We don’t miss a beat when he lifts me onto the cold, white marble countertop. I want this to be an alternate universe where we’re doing nothing wrong because it feels too good. I’ve been an unsettled wanderer for eight years, because this man is the only thing in my life that has felt right since Chris died.
He begins to unbutton my dress, his mouth moving to my neck. I close my eyes and let my head lull to the side to give him better access. His hands give up on my buttons after three, and he snakes his hands up the skirt of my dress, curling his fingers around the waist of my panties and dragging them down my legs.
“Lie back, beautiful,” he whispers in my ear.
I have no self-control, so I do what he asks. He sets my underwear on the counter, then guides my wedged pumps to the edge. Then he kisses his way up my leg while planting his hands on my inner thighs to spread my legs wider.
My back arches and I grip his hair in anticipation.
Oh god …
He’s going too slowly. Why must he torture me? He’s … all … most … there …
“Hello?”
HOLYFUCKINGHELL
I jackknife to sitting and fly off the counter. It’s my mom coming in the back door.
Murphy is way cooler than I am. He takes my underwear and starts to slide them into his pocket.
I scowl at him, ripping them from his grip and tucking them into my dress pocket. Then I shove him and hiss, “Go!”
Working the last button to my dress, I meet my mom just before she steps into the kitchen.
“Oh.” She jerks backward. “You scared me.”
I scared her? Okay. Sure.
“What’s up?” I ask, smoothing the apron down the front of my dress.
“You weren’t answering your phone. And I couldn’t find any Advil in your bathroom.” She squints, lifting the inside of her wrist to my forehead. “Are you running a fever? Your cheeks are burning red. I definitely think you’re getting sick.”
“Uh …” I retreat a step and push her hand away. “I’m fine. I got the dish water too hot.”
She gives me a wary look.
“Hey, Krista,” Murphy says, popping back into the kitchen like he’s been somewhere else, doing only good things.
“Hi, Murphy. Listen, I’m so sorry about bringing up your rental property. I should have—”