Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
He straightens slowly, clay dust on his expensive suit, and looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room.
My heart is still racing.
And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that I’ve not completely fallen for this man.
Chapter Forty-Eight
RICCI
Fuck. I’ve ruined her first batch of art. I should’ve texted, should’ve warned her somehow, but I didn’t think. I just saw her message about the brunch and a sudden, crazy need to see her in person took over everything else.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “You’re going to have to start those over. My fault.”
She brushes her hands on the apron and looks at me with those green eyes that always hit me somewhere deep. “It’s okay,” she says softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Really. It’s fine.”
I search her face, looking for a sign that she’s upset at losing her first pieces, but she just looks… happy. The tension that had been coiled tight in my chest loosens a fraction. “I saw your text about the brunch,” I tell her, wiping my hands on my jacket. “And decided to drop in and see how you were doing and answer in person.” I pause, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m afraid I’m not usually in the habit of announcing my arrival. The fewer people who know where I am, the better.”
She nods, cheeks still flushed from the shock of seeing me at her studio, but her eyes stay warm on mine. “It’s okay. It’s good to see you,” she says, and this time I believe her. The way she’s looking at me, it’s clear she’s glad I’m here.
I try not to stare too obviously at the way the gingham sundress clings to her when she moves. “Do you want to grab some lunch with me?”
“Yeah,” she says, voice soft. “I’d like that.”
She cleans up, and we step out into the busy street together, the late afternoon sun warm on our skin, the city noise wrapping around us. It feels good, walking beside her like this, her hand brushing mine every few steps. Nice. Normal in a way I’ve never had. We don’t talk much at first, just walk side by side, but the silence is comfortable and easy.
A little bistro catches her eye a couple blocks down. It is small and neatly tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop. It has outdoor tables and red and white striped awnings. Inside, the place smells of roasted coffee. We order at the counter. Prosciutto and mozzarella panini for me, grilled vegetable and goat cheese for her, plus a couple of cold San Pellegrino bottles. I pay, and we carry our food to a quiet table by the window.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
That gingham sundress, a soft yellow, white check thing, hugs her body in all the right ways. The thin straps rest on her shoulders, and every time she leans forward to take a bite, the neckline dips just enough to expose the soft swell of her breasts. My mouth goes dry. I want to lean across the table, tug that dress down, take a nipple into my mouth and suck it until she’s squirming and gasping my name. Instantly, I’m hard under the table, cock straining against my zipper. I shift in my seat, forcing the image out of my head, but it lingers… hot, insistent, and making my pulse thud heavy in my throat.
The conversation is light at first. Then I set my sandwich down. “About the brunch, you can say whatever you want. It really doesn’t matter. I married you because I wanted to. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
Her eyes soften with relief, but I can still see some worry lingering in that small crease between her brows. I reach across the table and brush my thumb over the back of her hand.
“Why are you still worried?” I ask quietly.
She hesitates, then tells me about the call from her sister. Her dad’s new debts, the beating, the guilt trip. I listen without interrupting, jaw tight, watching the way her shoulders tense as she speaks.
When she finishes, I shake my head slowly. “Don’t extend help to people who don’t want to help themselves,” I say, keeping my voice even but firm. “They’ll use guilt to make you feel bad, but they clearly don’t care about you. They never did. Blood doesn’t make them family. That much I can guarantee.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, then nods, something easing in her expression. “Yeah,” she whispers. “You’re right.”
The tension fades, and we finish our food talking about her pottery. When we step back outside, the afternoon light seems more mellow. We walk back to the studio hand in hand; her fingers laced through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.