Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Shh. Let’s not ruin it.” I flip my hair over my shoulders, wishing I hadn’t lent him my only hair elastic. I never got it back. My mom always says nothing is ever a loan. Just gift it and be done with it. I never understood what she meant until now. “What . . . what do you mean by tie me down?”
“So you don’t float away from me again.”
First, I’m his wife that he wanted to kiss. Now, he wants to tie me to him? Though the image of him tying me down to his heaven of a bed isn’t his worst idea. Or was that my idea? Either way, there’s tying between us.
What the heck is going on?
He went up to his office, where I knew for sure I’d be busted as some woman with a vendetta impersonating a wife he never had. But that’s not how it played out. Whatever happened in that building is working in my favor. Thank the Patron Saint of Suggestio Falsi for saving my behind and keeping the plan on track.
Warner Landers’s charming ways would typically have me eating up the sweet nothings. It’s Warner, though, so my guard goes up instantly. Am I losing control of the situation? Falling prey to a hot guy? Again? It’s not the first time I’ve made the mistake of crossing lines with someone who didn’t deserve my time.
This is a stark reminder that he’s the man who is callously stripping away not only my family’s livelihood but also our home. That makes my stomach twist into knots. It’s almost easier to put the emphasis on the restaurant than the home my family has lived in well before I was born. Tears will come if I give it even a minute of my time. Don’t think about it, Delaney.
I exhale and fix my disposition. A new Warner means fresh opportunities to make his life hell before he drags down mine and my family’s. I smile at him, but can tell it’s too big, and probably too telling of my intentions, judging by how he takes a step back. I’m tired of being on, so I release that energy and try to relax. “Hey?”
He comes closer and we start strolling. I’m glad to leave that situation behind and to be moving forward. Literally and figuratively. “Hey.” He bumps his arm against mine. If I’m not mistaken, he’s almost playful. Oh, he’s good. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Let’s find out.” I stop again to use my hands. Holding three fingers out, I say, “Spill it on the count of three. Three. Two. One—”
“Gelato.”
“Ice cream.” My mouth falls open. “Wow, we were thinking about the same thing.”
“Almost,” he replies, walking down the sidewalk from me.
I jog to catch up. “Almost is accurate. Ice cream is far superior to gelato.”
“No.”
Stopping at the corner, I glare at him. “What do you mean, no?”
He shrugs, but his gaze narrows. It’s subtle, but I think his breathing has quickened when I see his chest moving. The flex of his fingers and the lick of his lips don’t deter him from staring at the crosswalk signal like his life depends on it.
Oh.
Swiping the back of his hand across his forehead, he opens his mouth to take in air as if he wasn’t getting enough. I’m no expert, but I think he’s close to having a panic attack. That would make sense. Here we are in the vicinity of where it happened. No doubt he’s lucky to be alive with only minor injuries, considering what could have been horrific on another level.
I’ll probably hate myself for doing this, but right now, I don’t matter. He does. Looking between us, I slip my hand in his and tighten my hold on him. His gaze stays forward, but his fingers curl around mine as if this is something we regularly do. When the signal changes and the others around us take off, I move close to him, and whisper, “We can cross together.”
There’s no response, not verbally anyway, but he holds my hand across the two lanes. Although I expect him to drop my hand like a hot potato at any moment, he doesn’t. Warner’s grip tightens with no intention of letting go, as if I’m his to hold. My mouth goes dry as I attempt to swallow and fail. I clear my throat, hoping it helps my mind. It’s not my mind I’m most worried about. It’s another stupid organ in my chest.
And when his breathing evens out again and color returns to his face, he says, “Ice cream is not superior.” Picking up as if there was never a lapse in conversation. The transition was abrupt, but for his ego, I won’t bring up what just happened. Seems he prefers it that way. “I can appreciate the creaminess. It’s heavy, though. Gelato is lighter but packed with flavor. You don’t need syrup or cherries—”