Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“Shit!” I yelp, as Jude starts jogging, tugging me along. “Fuck!” My heels sink into the ground, and a foot slips right out, leaving one shoe behind. I start a wonky hobble, Jude’s hand tight around mine. “Wait!” I yell, laughing. “My shoe!”
He stops and looks back, his face, hair, body, all drenched. My gaze drops down to my front. I’m soaked too, rain hammering my body. And I smile, feeling so fucking alive. In a graveyard. I laugh, my eyes on Jude’s body. His shirt stuck to his chest, his nipples visible. His hair plastered across his face. Christ knows what I must look like.
His smile stretches into a grin, his hand raking through his wet hair, as he diverts us back and dips to pick up my shoe, removing the other one from my foot as he does. Then he slowly walks us out of the graveyard, in no rush at all.
Both of us drenched.
Both of us not giving a shit.
Because nothing could ruin the feeling inside right now.
Chapter 16
Pure white with the Arlington Hall crest on the breast, the robe skims my ankles, and the sleeves reach my knuckles. I feel like I’m wrapped in fluffy clouds.
Jude’s tossing something in a pan when I walk into the kitchen towel-drying my hair, and the waft of something delicious—not Jude—invades my senses. He’s in grey sweatpants. Bare-chested. His wet hair is a mess of waves falling around his ears. I’ve never had a type. I do now.
Him.
“Smells good,” I say, perching on a stool and flicking my head down, wrapping my hair in the towel and making a turban. When I lift my head again, Jude’s serving up two plates.
“Spaghetti à la Jude,” he says, sprinkling some basil leaves over the top before sliding my plate across to me.
My mouth waters as I collect my fork, and Jude sets a glass of wine by my plate. “I could get used to this.”
“Do,” he says, joining me, kicking his foot up on the footrest of his stool. “It’s not going anywhere.” He nods at my damp dressing. “That needs changing.”
I smile as I spin my fork in the pile of spaghetti and pop it in my mouth, humming my approval. “You’re good at this.”
“Better than Nonna’s?” he asks coyly, digging into his own plate. I don’t answer, not because it isn’t. “Casey’s the master chef of the family.”
“Where does he chef?”
“On yachts, mainly. Private dining. It’s insane how much people pay for him to feed them.”
“Sounds like an incredible job.”
“He loves it. He was named in an article in The Times when he was twenty-two. Things to do before you die: Have Casey Harrison cook for you. Since then, he’s travelled the world, cooked for the rich and famous.”
“Wow.”
“It’s made him a millionaire.”
“Double wow.”
Jude nods. “I asked him to take charge of the Orangery here when we opened, but he has far more fun on superyachts.” He quirks a brow as he takes a mouthful and chews. “It was probably wise. We’d clash.”
Interested, I turn into him more, taking a break from the spaghetti for some wine. “Why would you clash?”
“We’re different. We all are. Apparently, I’m sensible and strategic.”
“Yes.” I laugh. “You were very strategic when you pursued me.”
Jude’s fork falters as he plunges it into his pasta, a wave of something passing across his face. Then he smiles. “Casey is more mañana mañana. He’s irritatingly laid-back.”
“And Rhys?”
He blows his cheeks out. “Rhys is a bit of a loose cannon, as you’ve probably gathered.”
“You worry about him.”
“He’s successful, good-looking, charming, but he’s always had a problem with restraint.”
“The sex tape.”
“He’s a sportsman.” He tilts a wry smile my way. “Gets lots of attention, if you know what I mean.”
I scoff. And Jude doesn’t? They are three very handsome, successful, charming brothers. “I know what you mean.”
“You look good in the robe.” His voice has dropped a few octaves. “Very good.”
I purse my lips around another bite, seeing the intent in his gaze. “This pasta is too good to abandon.”
“You think?” He turns farther towards me and drops his fork, plucking out a piece of spaghetti and popping one end past his lips. My swallow is lumpy, my pulse picking up, as he leans towards me and pops the other end into my mouth. Then he slowly creeps forward, doing all the sucking, his eyes shining and stuck to mine. I drop my fork, brace myself, and when our lips meet, I groan, slipping off the stool and putting myself between his open thighs, deepening our kiss. “Think I’ve found something tastier,” he mumbles, pulling the robe open and having a thorough inspection. It hits the floor, and his hands rest on my hips, sending a flurry of shudders through me. My head drops back, the towel falling away, my wet hair tumbling all over my back and shoulders. Every inch of me calls for him, my breasts aching, my nipples hardening, a deep, intense throb hitting me between my thighs. “Come here.” He pulls my head up and reclaims my mouth, lifting me from my feet and sitting me on the counter. Plates clatter across the wood, being knocked aside. Tearing his mouth off mine briefly, Jude moves the wine, then pushes me down to my back, bending over me, returning to my mouth and kissing me hungrily.