Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
He sighs as he puts his elbow to the tabletop and his chin to his fist. “Then I guess only your nipples are into me.”
Chapter 14
Mila
Wifey. Sugar tits. Sugar nips. Medusa. Gremlin. Honeybuns—plural. Slut muffin. Smut muffin. Bunny. And now puddin’.
I shouldn’t be flattered by all that, should I?
I’m not sure if he was serious about daddy, but thundercock suits him. Anatomically, at least. My shoulders creep up under my ears as I give in to a giggle that Muttley, the cartoon dog, would be proud of. I think my blush might run all the way to the roots of my hair. What an eyeful that was. I can’t believe I (underwater) pantsed him—what devil possessed me?
As my giggle recedes, I give myself an internal shake. All the things I told him, all the cringe-inducing failures of my life. Was I trying to put him off?
And why didn’t it work?
It doesn’t matter. I can’t get caught up in this, I decide as I pull my feet up onto the sofa and curl them under my bum. My phone sits on the sofa arm, charged and connected to the Wi-Fi, but I’m trying very hard to ignore it. Same goes for listening to Fin moving around in the bedroom. Bare padding footsteps and toneless humming, and the odd question he calls out that I can’t ignore.
Such as: “Wanna come watch me shower?”
“No thanks!” I call back.
Maybe it’s more that I was trying to make it so awkward that I’d be too embarrassed to even think about sleeping with him. Not that it worked. Memory fragments from our wedding night don’t exactly help.
You could be his little puddin’. The dirty vessel he’d like to lick clean.
I absolutely ignore not-Ronny’s words, even as between my legs thrums at the thought.
The truth is, I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want him. But I can resist—I don’t have poor impulse control!
I will not jump Fin DeWitt’s bones.
I will reside serenely next to him until Friday without giving in to temptation.
I should write it out five hundred times. I just need to find a pencil and notebook. And some self-control.
Fin is a whole lot of man and a whole lot of fun, but this isn’t just about me. It’s about Baba, about securing both our futures. I want fun in my life. I want a relationship and love and a family of my own in time. All those hopes I put into Adam haven’t gone away. But Fin is too much of a risk. A wedding certificate does not a marriage make.
Okay, Yoda.
Ignoring not-Ronny, I decide I need a distraction. I swipe up my phone, only to tap it absently to my chin. It would be absolutely wrong for me to google Fin. First, I don’t need to know anything else about him. In fact, the less I know, the better, right? Second, it feels a tiny bit hinky. Like an invasion of his privacy. Even if the information is in the public domain.
It would be wrong—all kinds of wrong. Especially after watching how distressed Evie was before she left. I mean, Fin wasn’t chased out of a church by a vengeful fiancée, but I bet there are still things on the net that he’d prefer weren’t there.
But maybe the fact that he wouldn’t want me to know is the exact reason I should know. Sensible women google men before they meet them for dates.
But we’re not dating.
We’re . . . something else. Something that defies all logic.
I’ve confessed all my ridiculousness to him. Well, not all of it.
I wonder how many of Fin’s dates google his net worth first. Not that I’m interested in his wallet. What he has in his pants, however . . .
It’s a very good thing I have self-control, I decide as I slide my thumb over the lock.
The screen lights up.
And I quickly type out a text:
Miss your face.
My phone vibrates with a message immediately.
Ronny: New phone. Who dis?
She deleted me? I’ve only been gone a couple of days!
Not that we’re friends. Maybe we are sort of friends, even if I’m ten years older than her. Ronny’s popped over a lot since Baba went into the nursing home. But she’s just a kid—nineteen—it’s not like she’s the type to listen to me pour out my heart over a bottle of rosé.
Actually, she probably would. Though I’m not sure she’d be much good for advice. You can’t take dating advice from someone whose own dating life comes with a curfew.
Almost immediately, my phone vibrates again.
Ronny: Lol/jks. What’s up?
Me: I thought you’d forgotten me!
Ronny: How could I forget my fav neighbor and potential boss-lady?
Ronny is looking for a summer job, and this is another of her not-so-subtle hints. At least I’ll be able to help her out on this front now. Doing what, I’m not sure. Ronny is a little rough around the edges.