Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“You’re always hungry.”
Hungry for you. “Yeah, but right now, I’m so hungry I’d eat the arse off a low-flying seagull.”
A door opens as we approach, and music pours out. Soft jazz and a song about love and dancing cheek to cheek.
As we enter, I can’t help but smile. “I can see Evie booked this.”
“That’s Oliver’s wife, right?”
“Yeah.” Don’t look so nervous, darlin’. They’re gonna love you because I do. “She’s a vet,” I say. “Animal mad. That’s probably how she ended up with him, come to think of it.”
“Because he’s an animal?” Her expression turns doubtful.
“As wily as a wolf. You’ll like him.”
“And Fin? What’s he like.”
“Ah, well, you’ll like him more. He’s like a golden retriever. Maybe a handsome Lab? Once upon a time, pre-Mila, he’d probably have had a go at humping your leg.”
“The reformed playboy,” she asserts, amusement filling her tone. “The wolf and the pooch. What does that make you?”
I give a shrug. “A horny toad?”
With a soft laugh, she slides her arm through mine. “Does that mean I need to kiss you to get my prince?”
“Stick with the toad that’s really a lizard.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Much sexier, I think. Especially with all that tongue action.”
“Don’t even think about it.” Her words are heavy with warning.
“What, this?” I make a lewd gesture. Gene Simmons has nothing on me.
God, I want this too. A lifetime of her telling me no and laughing anyway. Of course that would be the moment the hostess appears. Blond hair pulled back in a sparkly scarf, slacks, a white shirt, and spats, of all things, on her feet. I’m sensing a theme.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she murmurs, pretending to have missed my oral air sex.
Sucks to be her.
“Table for Maven,” I say with a give-no-fucks assurance and a mile-wide grin.
“Of course,” she assents. “May I take your coat?” She directs this toward Ryan, who currently looks like she’d prefer to pull it over her head.
“Allow me,” I put in. Ryan turns, and I help slip it from her shoulders, which means it’s too late for this wave of . . . second thoughts, probably caveman-style. But I can see right down the front of her dress, which means most other people will be able to see down it too. I suddenly want to cover her back up, then pick her up, before carrying her out of this place. Keep all this loveliness for myself.
But I can’t do that and share with them how much she means to me. Not in one sitting, anyway. So we follow the hostess. Or rather, Ryan does. Meanwhile, I follow mi mujer, my woman, and the hypnotic sway of her hips. I’d follow this woman anywhere.
“Here they are!” Fin stands first as we approach the table, all smiles and welcome and well-bred bonhomie. Oliver next, his manners and suit impeccable. Introductions are made, Evie and Mila doling out hugs and effusive greetings.
“Oh, my gosh, you are stunning!” Evie grabs Ryan’s hand, sending an accusing look my way. “You didn’t tell me you were punching, Matt.”
“Hush, don’t tell her. She might leave.” I lower my voice as though sharing a secret. “I got my claws into her at a low moment, just the way Oliver taught me.”
“Charming,” Oliver murmurs, amused or unimpressed. It’s hard to tell.
“It’s okay, baby,” Evie says, chucking his chin. “I love you anyway.”
“And Matt likes his women pregnant,” Fin says as I press my hand to the small of Ryan’s back, guiding her into her seat.
“Like a fetish?” Ryan asks with a chuckle before turning those baby blues my way. “Am I not the first?”
“You’re like . . .” I pretend to count on my fingers. “At least my twelfth. But my fetish isn’t for pregnant women. It’s for christening cake. Who found this place?” I ask, glancing around the restaurant. We’ve been given a private room that’s not technically closed off from the main space, so still part of the general atmosphere.
“Mila did,” Evie offers up. “Or one of her projects did. It’s great, right? I keep expecting a young Evelyn Waugh to walk in.”
“Who’s she?” My mouth curls, and Evie sends me an unimpressed look. But I get what she means. The place is . . . of an era, I suppose. Sophisticated and sexy, thanks to a moody color scheme full of tactile furnishings and lamps made from ostrich plumage. It’s a distinctly 1930s kind of vibe without being overly kitsch.
“Har-har,” Evie says, overstressing. “Well, I think this place is like the Bloomsbury set and Jay Gatsby had a restaurant baby.”
“It was Abena who told me about it,” Mila offers up. “She was the interior designer who planned your home office?”
“Ryan’s home office,” I say, glancing fondly her way. “She’s in there beavering away most days.”
“Matt says you’re investing for him,” Mila says, turning her way.