Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
He smirks. This asshole smirks!
“Come on, let’s have drinks. We’ll need some food so we don’t kill ourselves from alcohol poisoning.”
“I have a lasagna that I put in the fridge last night,” I reply. “I’ll pop it in the oven to warm.”
Needing something to do with my hands so I don’t just jump him, completely ruining my rules in the first six hours of marriage, I start the oven and take the lasagna out of the fridge.
“Where’s the tequila?” he asks, and I point to the sideboard in the living room. “Got it.”
“I don’t have lime or margarita mix,” I inform him, and he smirks at me.
“We don’t need training wheels, babe.”
I should tell him not to call me that. I said no terms of endearment.
But I don’t have the fight in me tonight.
The light catches on my gold band, and I stare down at it. It feels foreign on my finger. Holy shit, we actually did this.
We’re married.
The murder hornets are back, and they’re pissy.
“So, what happens now?” I ask Holden as I slip the lasagna into the oven and grab some shot glasses out of the cupboard. “Do you take the marriage license to the attorney as proof?”
“I’ll do that tomorrow,” he confirms and pulls the lid off the bottle and then pours two shots. He holds one up, and I clink mine to his. “Happy wedding day.”
I nod, and then we pound the shot, and it burns going down. “Another.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He pours us each another shot, and we pound that one, too. I don’t want to get too drunk too fast, so I shake my head when he offers me another.
“I’d better space them out,” I reply and wiggle out of my boots. “I’m going to put on something more comfortable.”
“I will, too.”
We move into our bedrooms and close the doors.
I think about locking mine and then shake my head at myself. There’s no need to do that. I know him. He won’t do anything I don’t want.
But after that kiss in the hallway, I want.
Jesus, do I ever want.
Scowling, I stomp over to the dresser and grab my wide-leg yoga pants and a hoodie, along with some soft socks, and change. I brush out my hair and twist it up into a ponytail, and then I walk back out to the kitchen, where Holden is pouring himself another shot.
My mouth goes dry.
What he’s wearing shouldn’t be anything to write home about. He’s just in loose basketball shorts. They’re black, and they’re obviously not new because they look soft and well worn, as if this is his usual loungewear every day after a hard day on the ranch.
But on top, he’s in a red T-shirt that hugs his muscles in the most delicious way. The tequila is already hitting my brain because, holy shit, I want to run my hands over that cotton and feel every sexy ridge of muscle.
And then I want to peel it off of him.
Bad, Millie!
“Another?” Holden holds up the bottle and raises an eyebrow.
“Absolutely, yes.”
CHAPTER SIX
HOLDEN
If my girl doesn’t stop staring at me like she’s starving to death and would like to eat me fucking alive, I’m going to break rule number five in about six seconds.
She’s in those baggy pants and a big, oversized sweatshirt that hides all her curves, but I know how goddamn amazing her body is.
And I know that she’s wearing those clothes for comfort because today was rough on her. When we were saying our vows, so many emotions swam over her gorgeous face, and I wanted to interrupt the old lady and tell Millie that everything would be okay.
I wanted to wrap my arms around her and comfort her.
And I likely would have had sharp nails raked down my face for it.
It’s been a long, uncomfortable, exhausting day. And it’s barely dinnertime.
Millie pulls the lasagna out of the oven and says, “It has to rest for a few. We can sit in the living room, if you want.”
“Lead the way.”
We each take a small glass of tequila with us. Millie curls up in a chair, pulling her legs under her, and I sit on the couch across from her. We watch each other quietly for a moment.
Jesus, I’ve wanted nothing but this exact moment for the better part of the past decade. To be alone in a room with her. To be able to talk to her, touch her. Hold her.
For now, talking is fine. For now.
“What time do you have to leave for the ranch in the morning?” She’s not looking me in the eye. She’s plucking at a string on the seam of her pants. She looks tense, her eyebrows pulling together, making little lines that I want to smooth out with my fingertips. Or my lips.
“Around five.”
She nods and sips her tequila. You have to admire a woman who can fucking sip tequila.