Like the investments we make together. The wealth we’ve amassed over the last five years.
We do so much better when we’re not held back by idiots.
“Maybe I’ll chaseyoulater,” I murmur under my breath. Mia says nothing, but I know she hears me because her cheeks turn pink and her thighs shift against the sun lounger, suddenly restless. She fusses over our daughter and I trace a fingertip over the crown of her head.
Her dark hairs are silky and warm, red highlights brought out by the sun. So beautiful.
I still can’t believe she’s mine.
“We could call the sitter.” I offer it casually, like I’m not desperate for time alone with Mia. I’malwayscraving her. Needing a taste.
Mia glances up at me from the corner of her eye, and fuck, I love her sly smile. My heart trips faster when she nods.
Where will she run this time? Will she give me any warning before she leaves, or will she slip out without warning, dancing out of the backdoor while I’m tied up with something else?
I love it both ways. Any night I chase Mia is a good night. It brings my whole body sparking to life, and by the time I catch up with her, she’s always slick and needy. Ready for me.
“Better hydrate.” I pat her head, grinning at her loud huff, then lean down to mutter in her ear. “I won’t go easy on you. I’ve caught you before, princess, and I’ll always catch you again.” I lick Mia’s throat. “Get ready to beg.”
III
Mail Order Vow
Description
We meet for the first time on a windswept cliff at 8am.
In twenty-four hours, we’ll marry.
I know it doesn’t look good–being a mail order bride. But I’m not doing this for money or anything gross. The truth is… I’m lonely.
I’m tired of being the forgotten sister; the bookish, plain one who never gets a second look. And my groom-to-be? He won’tstopstaring.
But the burly lighthouse keeper is scarred and gruff. He barely speaks, and when he does, it sends shivers down my spine.
Can I really do this? Can I marry a man I just met?
And after feeling his possessive touch… could I ever walk away?
Jessica
My car engine sputters as I turn down yet another winding lane, tires bouncing over the uneven road. The early morning sunshine is blinding, spearing through the windshield directly into my eyes, and my palms are slick on the steering wheel.
I’m squinting.
I’m cursing under my breath.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.
Every time my car judders over a dip in the road, a landslide of belongings shifts behind me on the backseat, bags of clothes spilling onto each other as my shoe box of literary buttons rattles like a rainmaker. Why did I bring so muchstuff?
Mr MacGregor wants a mail order bride, not a lifetime of sentimental crap. What if he makes me get rid of it all? What if he sendsmeaway too, complaining that he didn’t order a pack rat?
God. I can’t go back home. I can’t handle the snide comments and pointed laughs. I’d rather join some hippy commune or become a nun.
I should have left the books behind. The ones I never read anymore, at least, because they account for more than half of the mountain behind me. But no, I crammed my ancient car full to the brim then spent a sleepless night in a motel yesterday, worrying that thieves would break into my car while I tossed and turned on my lumpy mattress.
As if. No self respecting thief would go to all that trouble for a bag of used clothes, a dented table lamp, and a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. But it was better to think about my stuff, to worry about all that, than admit what I’m doing here. What I’ve agreed to.