Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Five minutes later, it’s chaos.
Somehow, he burns it. I don't even know how. One minute, the water's simmering like it should be, and the next, the fire alarm is wailing. And right in the middle of the madness, he grabs me and kisses me like the world’s ending, and our food isn’t ruined.
I double over laughing, uncontrollably, nearly wheezing. I almost pee myself from how baffled he looks, standing there with a wooden spoon like it's betrayed him.
“What the hell did I do wrong?” he says, dragging a hand through his hair.
“You let yourself get distracted by your new wife.” I giggle, still catching my breath.
He groans like a man suffering in silence. “Fine. We’ll come to an agreement. You cook, I clean, for all the meals, eh?”
“I like that deal,” I say, my lips curling into something sly.
He pops open a bottle of red, something dark and probably expensive, and pours us each a glass. I rummage through his cabinets, find some meat in the fridge, a can of tomatoes, and a head of garlic that looks half alive. The basics. A few minutes later, the kitchen is thick with the smell of onions sautéing in butter, the beef browning in a swirl of herbs and cracked pepper.
“Simple food’s the best food,” I tell him, stirring the sauce.
“It is,” he agrees, watching me like I’ve conjured some form of edible magic.
I find a crusty loaf of bread in the fridge, smear it with garlic and butter, sprinkle it with herbs, and toss it under the broiler until it’s golden, crisp, and perfect.
“This looks incredible,” he says, his eyes wide and reverent. “Forget having kids. Maybe you should just cook for me, love.”
I laugh, but there’s something under it, something smaller and quieter that doesn’t quite go away.
“I’ve heard stories about Keenan McCarthy,” I say softly, not looking at him. “I hope what you said is true, that your mother can soften him.”
“My da’s not a bad sort, Zoya,” he says, setting his fork down. “We’ve talked about this, aye? His issue with me… It’s because he listens to his best mate’s advice.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask, frustration creeping into my voice. “You seem reliable.”
“I am reliable. But not manipulative. And his friend is. There’s a difference.”
“It makes sense,” I murmur. “I’m glad Rafail’s never had to deal with anything like that.”
“My father’s old now. Tired. He’s ruled the family for a long time. But when his friend promised him a kingdom, he took the bait.”
“I know it,” I say, and I do. I feel it, how old men still dream of crowns, even when their hands are shaking.
He eats with focus, like he’s thinking between every bite. But when we talk, he’s fully present. He sets his utensils down. He gestures, expressive, telling me stories of his youth, of Belfast summers and family dinners. Of loyalty and loss. I tell him mine in return, pieces I’ve never given anyone else.
We fit, somehow.
“We’re oddly suited for each other, aren’t we?” he says with a wistful kind of grin.
“Definitely,” I say.
“Now, all that’s left is convincing our families to see it too.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s our only problem,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s definitely the biggest, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, rising from the table and sweeping the dishes into my arms. I don’t meet his eyes, not yet. I walk to the sink, and the sound of plates clinking against stainless steel fills the silence between us.
Then, without thinking, my mouth curls into a smirk, sharp and teasing. I glance over my shoulder, just enough to catch him watching.
“I think our biggest problem might be that my husband thinks he can cook.”
I don’t even finish the sentence before he’s on me. His arms wrap around my waist, warm and impossibly solid. I burst into laughter, wild, breathless, uncontained, as he pins me between his body and the counter. His hands find my sides, relentless, tickling until I’m writhing and gasping for air.
And then he kisses me, right at the curve of my neck, where his beard scrapes and burns in all the right ways. I swear I feel him breathe me in, like I’m something vital. Like I’m the only air he needs.
“You’re a firecracker,” he mutters against my skin, his voice frayed with want.
“Leave the damn dishes,” he says next, and there’s heat behind it. “I think the real problem is my wife still hasn’t learned how to obey me.”
An involuntary breath catches in my throat. My body hums with it.
“Okay,” I whisper. I don’t know if that’s what he wants to hear, or if he’s just going to toy with me more and draw it out like he always does.
“Is that the right thing to say?” he murmurs, one hand drifting lower, fingers sinking in and squeezing my ass like it belongs to him.