Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
CHAPTER TEN
IRIS
I wake up alone in Hunter’s bed, well, not completely alone. The beagle is up and snuffling at my elbow before I can even finish a yawn. Buster’s already in hyperdrive, tail drumming the mattress, tongue lolling like he’s just discovered joy for the first time. I blink a few times, brain still lagging behind, and scrub at my eyes. If reincarnation exists, I’m coming back as my own beagle. This guy is spoiled rotten.
The clock next to the bed says it’s early. Too early for a Saturday, but Buster is a relentless little taskmaster.
I pull my hair up into a messy bun. Then I pull on a loose T-shirt and shorts. As my impatient beagle circles the room, I slide my feet into sneakers. Buster rushes to the door and presses his little nose to the seam, vibrating with anticipation. I clip on his leash.
The second he hears the click, Buster launches himself down the hallway like he’s shot from a cannon. I have to jog to keep up. My legs are noodles, and my brain’s not even booted up yet, but this dog? Full speed. No days off.
I shuffle after him, yawning so wide my jaw cracks. I look like I went twelve rounds with my pillow and lost, but Buster acts like I’m his personal fitness coach. We hit the elevator, and he wags so hard he actually bonks his head on the door.
There’s nobody else awake in the hallway, which is exactly how I like it since I’m not even wearing a bra.
We make it through the lobby without running into anyone I know. Bless. We head out to the dog park. “You have to hurry,” I tell Buster as he starts sniffing the grass. “Daddy should be home soon.” Hunter’s been on shift since yesterday morning, and he’s due home by eight a.m. My heart does a little tap dance at the thought.
Buster finally does his business, and then it’s straight back inside.
After feeding Buster his breakfast, I head to the kitchen to make Hunter breakfast. I add grounds and water to the coffeepot. Then the machine gurgles and spits as it comes alive.
The apartment is a study in opposites. Hunter’s half is organized to within an inch of its life—remote controls at perfect right angles, shoes lined up in military formation, while my chaos is already creeping in. There’s a riot of throw pillows on the couch, a rainbow mug drying by the sink, Buster’s pizza-shaped chew toy abandoned in the middle of the living room like a land mine.
I crack eggs into a bowl, beat them until my wrist aches, and line up strips of bacon on the skillet. Buster appears at my feet, sniffing the air and giving me his best “starving puppy” eyes, even though he just freaking ate. I toss him a chunk of cheese, which he devours with comical drama.
There’s a weird, fizzy happiness bubbling in my chest. I want everything to be perfect when Hunter gets home.
At seven-fifty-five, I hear the deadbolt click and my pulse spikes.
Hunter comes in with his head down, shoulders hunched under a threadbare navy hoodie. He looks wrecked—eyes hollow, hair a mess, skin shadowed with stubble. But when he sees me at the stove, something behind his eyes sharpens and comes alive.
He doesn’t say a word. Just drops his keys in the dish by the door, shrugs out of his hoodie, and beelines for me.
In three strides, he’s behind me, hands anchoring to my hips, body pressed so close I can feel his heartbeat in my back. He buries his face in my hair and breathes in, deep and shuddering.
“Fuck, Sunshine,” he rumbles, voice so low it vibrates through my bones. “I missed you.”
His arms wrap all the way around, pinning me against his chest. My hands go slack on the spatula as his mouth finds my neck, lips dragging slow and hot just under my ear.
I can’t help the noise that escapes me—a whimper, needy and helpless. I tip my head, giving him full access.
“You’re going to make me burn the bacon,” I gasp, but there’s no real protest in it. My whole body is melting, turning liquid under the relentless press of his hands.
He grunts, slides one palm under the hem of my T-shirt, and finds bare skin. His hand is huge and hot and calloused, splaying across my stomach. I suck in a breath as his thumb traces lazy circles at my waist, dipping lower with each pass.
“Fuck the bacon,” Hunter says into my hair, voice rough and raw. “I need you.” His hands keep moving, possessive, mapping every inch of my skin. He nips my earlobe and then murmurs, “I missed you so goddamn much.”
He turns off the stove and places the pot on a cool burner. Then he turns me in his arms and lifts me. When he deposits me on the edge of the counter, I gasp at the cool surface under my bare legs. He steps between my knees and pulls me forward until there’s not an inch of space left between us.