Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Camryn Moore, I definitely do not have daddy issues.”
“Hmmm.”
Dec reaches for my knee and squeezes in playful warning, and I yelp, bucking up in my seat.
“He definitely has daddy issues,” Ron pipes in from up front, his eyebrows disappearing above the reflection of his eyes in mirror they’re so high.
“You’re not included in this conversation, Ron,” Dec mutters.
“Noted.”
“What does your father do?” I ask, hungry for more about Dec.
“Acquisitions and mergers.”
“You work together?”
“Jesus, no.”
I gasp. “You’re rivals?”
“You got it.”
I’m building the picture. Dec’s punishing his father. Punishing the entitled brats. “And you don’t have daddy issues?”
“No.”
“Hmmm.”
He grabs me round my waist and pulls me onto his lap. “You’re asking for it.”
“You make love to me, Casanova.” I touch my nose with his. “You’re not going to be a man I fuck and forget, remember?”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be a man who you fuck and remember.”
“I like you making love to me.”
“You romantic, you.”
“Shut up.” I roll my mouth onto his, forcing his head to rest back on the seat, kissing him with hungry lips and an exorable tongue. “Sorry, Ron,” I mumble, and he laughs from the front.
“Don’t mind me. This is a refreshing Dec.”
There are few things in the world that could make me stop kissing Dec. Dec himself, obviously. And that statement. He’s rolling his eyes, knowing very well my interest is piqued. I keep my gaze on Dec but speak to Ron. “Refreshing?”
“Don’t read into that statement too deeply,” Dec warns.
“Okay, not too deeply.” I look over my shoulder. “What does that mean, Ron?”
“Nothing at all,” he breathes, more awkward than Dec. “Langhans, you said?”
“Langhans,” Dec confirms, putting me on the seat next to him, his hand back on my knee.
“Tell me what he meant,” I push, lightly.
Dec turns serious eyes onto me. No lightness in sight. “Tell me why you’re getting divorced.”
I retreat, literally and metaphorically, darkness swamping the lightness I was feeling a moment ago. “I’ve hit a nerve, clearly,” I say, turning my attention to London by night, at Christmas whizzing past. “I’m sorry.” There was no need for him to fire that bullet.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He reaches for my arm, holding it, but not tugging me closer. “Hey, come here.”
I inhale deeply as I turn. “Can we rewind two minutes?”
He pulls me onto his lap and holds my face. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be a man who you fuck and remember,” he says quietly, his eyes falling to my mouth in anticipation. I don’t have a chance to instigate the kiss, as Dec takes care of it, slipping his hand onto my nape and pulling me to his lips. And now I’d like to skip dinner, go home with him, and let him take me to the stars before I fall asleep in his arms.
I push my chest into his, and he groans, his body stiffening against me. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Me too.”
His phone ringing brings our moment to an untimely halt, and he crinkles his nose. “My sister,” he murmurs, helping me off his lap.
His sister? “The brat?”
“Not the brat.”
So not a half-sister, but an actual sister? “You never mentioned you had a sister.”
“I have a sister,” he says, deadpan, looking down at his screen.
“Are you going to take it?”
“I’ll call her back.” He nods toward the windscreen. “We’re here.”
Ron pulls up outside the restaurant, and Dec hops out, rounding the car and opening the door for me. “Older sister, younger sister?” I ask, my curiosity raging.
“Older.” His hand on the small of my back guides me to the entrance of the restaurant as he looks back at the car and waves his thanks to Ron.
“How much older?”
“Four years.”
“Her name?”
He smiles down at me. “April.”
“Was she born in April?”
“Yes. Our mother was very original.” He heaves the door open and gets us inside, and the heater above the door blasts us with hot air.
I gaze around, seeing paper hats on every head in sight. Christmas parties. People celebrating at every turn, the pops of crackers piercing the air as people laugh and talk loudly to be heard over the background noise of everyone else talking. I haven’t been in a restaurant in years, least of all at Christmas. A mild wave of panic ripples through me, but I stamp it down, looking at Dec. He appears as unenthusiastic as me.
“It’s busy, huh?” I murmur as he slips his hands beneath the shoulders of my coat and eases it off.
He frowns, but as I look closer, I see it’s more of a scowl. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks.
“So you hate Christmas more than you love it?”
“And you just hate it, right?” he fires back coolly, and I roll my eyes, rather than freeze in terror at the potential of unearthing my demons. I know it’s got to happen eventually, but not now. Tonight we’re having dinner like a normal . . . couple? Is that what we are?