Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
"Sorry, I'm late," I apologize as I head over to the seat at the table that has been set for me.
No one answers me. Oh dear.
I note his mom and daughter are sitting side by side, chatting softly, but I, the wife, am all the way at the opposite end, isolated, like an afterthought. A chasm in between. I'm beginning to get why Carolyn doesn't like them, this deliberate distance, the way they close ranks without her. But I shouldn’t judge so fast. What if it isn't their fault? What if it is Carolyn's behavior that built this wall, brick by bitter brick?
I'm served immediately by the waiter. Deferentially, he places a plate before me with a soft clink. I notice immediately that while the others are eating fish with deliciously golden potatoes on the side, I'm given a small green salad with pink curls of seafood dressed in a light vinaigrette. It is clearly the kind of thing Carolyn ate to stay thin.
I try not to scrunch my nose at it, hesitating with the fork in hand, poking at a leaf. But what the hell? I’m not eating this food for the next three months. I should start the way I mean to carry on. I put my fork down and turn to the waiter.
"Could I have what the rest of the family is eating, please?"
Everyone freezes with shock. For a moment, they all turn to stare at me. Frances's brows lift, Freya's eyes are wide with surprise, and Blake's gaze is wary.
I ignore them all and keep my chin up as my plate is removed, though inside my pulse is racing. Have I just shattered another fragile piece of this façade?
Chapter Thirteen
BLAKE
Igive my mother a look across the table, subtle but pointed, because if there's anything out of place, she'll notice. I expect her sharp eyes to miss nothing after a lifetime of navigating her world of wealth and whispers. I wonder if that faint arch of her brow as Carolyn entered is her picking up on the shift, or just the usual disdain she has for her daughter-in-law.
But I definitely do.
It's hitting me like a slow burn, starting from the moment she stepped into the dining room slightly disheveled in a way that's so unlike her, that it stops my breath for a second.
To start with Carolyn is never this casual at dinnertime. Every night she dresses like we're dining at one of the best restaurants in town, layers of couture labels stacked on top of each other. But here she is in a light polka dot sundress—thin straps slipping over her shoulders, the light cotton hugging her curves in a way that's… almost playful, the hem swirling as she moves. Her strawberry-blonde bob is tousled as if she just woke up, strands catching the chandelier's warm glow. No makeup, or at least none that I can see. She usually slaps on the full works. Nope, tonight it’s just flushed cheeks and deeply blue eyes.
Yeah, that’s another thing. When was the last time she apologized for anything.
She looks breathtaking, raw and real in a way she's never been. The way that dress holds her breasts. God, I can't look away, the fabric stretching just enough to outline their full swell, nipples faintly visible through the thin material in the room's soft light. Being around a lot of socialites all my life—women who've nipped and tucked themselves into perfection on Fifth Avenue—I know what fake breasts look like. Perfectly round and hard looking. Like one tennis ball cut in half and stuffed under stretched skin. But these… these have to be the most full, most naturally gorgeous looking breasts I've ever seen. They seem to be soft and heavy, moving with her breath in a way that's mesmerizing.
They draw my eyes despite myself.
For the love of God, I’m staring at them, I realize with a jolt. I pull my gaze away from the way the polka dots shift over her curves, and I can't believe it: I feel myself getting hard. Hot blood is rushing south, unbidden, and my trousers tighten uncomfortably under the table. The dining room feels warmer suddenly, and it makes my skin prickle as I shift in my seat.
Shocked, I stare at her openly, feeling my blood stir for the first time since... ever, really. What on earth is wrong with me? I don’t even like this woman. And the only thing in our future is a divorce.
This had been partly a business relationship from the start. Why not? She was accomplished in bed, and she was polished enough to fit the role of the perfect society wife on paper, and more importantly, I really thought she cared about Freya. But then, I never felt anything for her beyond that initial sexual spark. Never this raw pull, this heat coiling low in my gut like a live wire. Then, a bit of plastic surgery, of all things, I'm suddenly attracted? Am I that shallow? The thought twists in my mind. Maybe there's something wrong with me, some glitch in my wiring. She's been a stranger in my bed for almost two years and yet I am responding to her as if she is someone I’ve just met.