Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
We crash into the tree. An ornament falls and rolls across the floor with a soft clink.
I laugh. Then he flips us, pinning me beneath him like he can’t take one more second of me in charge.
“My turn.”
His breath is hot against my cheek. Whispered sin.
This time, he takes his time… slow, deep strokes that punch the breath out of my lungs. That glass ornament chimes on the floor like a warning bell. He leans in and kisses me tenderly.
“You were always mine, Emma.”
I let the words settle over me, warming me through.
Afterward, we’re tangled in the quilt, my body still trembling. His fingers stroke through my hair while the movie plays, forgotten. That movie will never be sweet and innocent again.
He asks, “Still your favorite?”
“It’s chaos.” I exhale. “Feels like home.”
“I used to pretend I was him, you know? The boy left behind.” I liked the thought of being alone. Forgotten.
He laughs, rough and real. “You’d booby-trap the whole fucking house if I left you alone.” He smirks and kisses my temple. “I never stopped loving you, Emma.”
I don’t say it back. Not yet.
I won’t even let myself voice the doubts I have, that this is all a mirage, that I’m going back home to my divorce papers and empty apartment, my mother’s judgment and looming deadline.
But I don’t pull away either. Because this, right now? Is real.
Then his palm smacks my ass, sharp and satisfied.
“Now, Em,” he growls. “Get those damn words in.”
I write like the wind.
Words flow from me like a woman possessed. They’re raw and real, and so cathartic, I become the woman I’m writing, the jilted lover in search of finding her true self.
And they say romance novels aren’t realistic.
“Fuck them,” I mutter.
“Fuck who?” Owen calls out from the other room, only a few feet away.
“The people who say romance novels are unrealistic! As if women don’t deserve undying love and affection.”
“Aye? And men aren’t hung like fucking broncos, amirite?”
I snort and slam the laptop shut. “Done. You, sir, have well and truly unblocked me.”
He peeks around the corner and smiles at me. My heart turns over in my chest. “Well done, lass. Well done. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.” I whisper the reply because I don’t trust my voice.
“Snow’s beginning to melt a little,” he says, turning from me, as he walks back toward the kitchen.
My heart sinks.
When the snow melts, we have no reason to be sequestered here together anymore. What happens then?
If only real life had the happily ever afters I write.
But for now?
I’ll take the next chapter.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Owen
The lights blink red, then green. Her sweater's crooked, one shoulder bare. Her hair is a mess, lips parted, and she smiles. That real one. The one I haven’t seen in weeks, maybe longer, as if it surprises her to be happy.
We strung up lights around the windows and found old ornaments in a box marked “trash” that she refused to throw out. One was a one-eyed teddy bear she insisted on keeping. So cute.
And now? She stands between the firelight and the tree, flushed and glowing like some kind of miracle. Like Christmas finally came for me.
“I can’t believe that word count!” she tells me, with this dazed kind of triumph, her eyes glassy from too much focus. She bends her neck like she’s got a crick from sitting in bed too long.
“Must be the sex,” I mumble into my mug of coffee. “Yer Irish cabana boy at your service.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t stifle the giggle.
But she doesn’t walk away.
Snow starts falling again. Fat flakes smear the glass, dulling the world outside into grayscale, and she releases a breath, as if relieved, and I’m not sure why. When she starts rubbing her arms with her hands, I pull her closer.
"You cold, love?”
She nods, but it's a lie. She just wants to be closer, and I’m happy to oblige.
“I love when you say that.”
“Love?”
“Mmm. I know where you’re from that doesn’t mean anything, but—”
“Shhh.” I press my finger to her lips. “It absolutely does. Just because it’s used freely and often doesn’t mean it’s a throwaway word for me.”
Her eyes shine at me. I kiss her cheek.
“You need a break now. It’s dinnertime.”
“Mmm. I’m starving,” she whispers, but doesn’t move.
My hands are warm when they slide under her sweater, my palms rough against the soft swell of her belly, the gentle curve of her bare breasts. Her breath hitches, and she arches, gasping. Holy hell, the sounds she makes.
I press her back against the window, large snowflakes still falling.
"Owen…" Her voice cracks, and fog blooms around her shoulders. I watch it mist the glass behind her, every exhale marking the spot where our bodies push heat into winter.
"No one's out there," I say, nudging her thighs apart. My mouth is on her neck, my voice inside her ear. "But if they were… they'd see who you belong to."