Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
The guard releases the gate and I make a last-second decision. I go right when I should probably go left.
I press the doorbell, clutching the coffee cake, and wait. The hallway is small, more confined than comfortable, with cheap brown carpeting and cold white walls etched with deep, random scratches.
Her laugh sounds through the door, followed by a deep male voice, before she undoes the lock. Her eyes go wide when she sees me. “Branch,” she breathes, gulping.
“Am I interrupting something?” I grind my teeth together, looking over her shoulder. A tall, dark-haired man stands near the sofa, smiling brightly at me. “Who the fuck is that?”
She opens the door and I walk in, squeezing the plastic tin so hard it crackles.
“Branch, this is Max Quinn,” Layla says. “Max, this is Branch.”
“Nice to meet ya.” Max sticks his hand out, his Southern drawl deeper than mine. “I’ve heard a lot about ya. Congratulations on the baby.”
Tossing a glance at Layla out of the corner of my eye, I shake Max’s hand. “Thanks. And who are you?”
“I’m Poppy’s cousin. My buddy, Cane, and I are up here with our wives for a wedding. Poppy left her sunglasses over here and I was in this part of town, so I offered to grab ’em.”
I attempt to control the exhale of breath, but Max notices and grins.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he almost whispers. “Just relax a little. And ease up on the cake, son, or you’re gonna have a mess on your hands.”
He grips my shoulder as he walks by me, telling Layla goodbye. I don’t get involved with them, just work on settling the adrenaline that had me ready to come to blows with Max.
As I listen to her giggle and tell him to come back and visit, it dawns on me this is a real thing. Probably not a one-time deal. How many times will I walk into her home to get the baby and another man will be in there?
The plastic pops again.
What if it’s her husband and he tells me I can’t see my kid? Or didn’t give him a Popsicle and made him cry?
Fuck that guy. I’m gonna kill him and he doesn’t even exist.
I’m losing my damn mind.
“Here,” she says, taking the coffee cake from me. “There’s no sense in abusing a poor dessert.”
Releasing the container, it’s dented and the cream cheese icing is stuck to the top. “Sorry,” I offer sheepishly.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, carrying the cake to the kitchen.
“Why do you think something is wrong?”
“Well, you’re here, for one. And for two, you look like you’re ready to brawl.”
I shrug because I’m not completely sure. Instead of answering, I watch her grab a plate and fork.
Her legs look toned in a pair of white shorts, her yellow top tight against her chest. Her hair is messy in a half-up, half-down thing and her eyes shine even more golden next to her shirt.
Watching her, I can’t help but acknowledge the tightness in my chest. She’s beautiful and sexy and sweet and sincere. But it’s how she makes me feel that’s crazy.
I don’t want to just undress her and lick every part of her body. I want to kiss her, take my time and adore her. I want to take her to a stupid movie or get her coffee cake in the middle of the night.
But why? What’s the point?
“You gonna offer me a piece?” I ask.
“Maybe.” She shoves a forkful in her mouth. “God, this is so good.”
“I love hearing you say that.”
She rolls her eyes, but cuts me a piece anyway. “Here. That’s all you get.”
“Stingy.”
She smiles and goes back to her cake. I take a bite and look around.
Her apartment is small with white walls and muted, feminine touches. The couch is a simple grey with so many pillows I don’t know how she even sits on it. There are images of beaches and skylines and simple artistic drawings adorning the walls, helping to make them not look so dull.
It’s a one-eighty from my house with its large, barren rooms and black and white canvas. I thought modern and sparse was my jam, but I’m not entirely sure now.
“What do you think?” she asks. “I loved the light in here. That’s why I chose this apartment.”
“It’s nice. It’s what I thought your apartment would look like, actually. Pretty. Tasteful.”
“I hope you thought it would be cleaner,” she laughs. “I hate cleaning. Hate it. I’m not good at domestic crap. Callum used to say . . .” She stops when she sees my reaction. “It doesn’t matter what he used to say.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So,” she says in an attempt to change the subject, “want a drink? Pop? Tea? Decaf?”
“Water?” I ask.
“I’ve drank my weight in water today,” she says, swiping a bottle from the refrigerator. “I read that drinking more water keeping swelling down. Does that make any sense to you?”