I laugh, and he cracks a tiny smirk. “Uh, no. That was you.” I’m grinning while he scowls at me. “I was energized. While you were snoring, I went out to the garage and picked accent colors for the Corvette.”
“You left the bed??” He gasps.
Dog barks, jumping onto the bed.
I’m cackling. “Please stop.”
“Ugh, sorry.” Kemper rolls his eyes, sitting up to tend to Sobaka. “Daddy didn’tleave, child. He’s right here.”
Dog’s tail is wagging as he rolls around, being the hyperactive nutball desperate for attention that he is—even more so in the morning.
Normally we’re pretty early risers, mainly because we like to take our time in the shower. We sleep in on weekends, butduring the week, Kemper’s up by eight at the latest, and I’m not far behind him.
Sobaka, on the other hand, likes to be up when the stock market opens so he can check on his investments.
“He was out like a light too!” I gripe. “Everyone’s been sleeping soundly except me.”
The humor dissolves, and I witness Kemper swallowing. “I wish I could ease your mind, baby Luscious. I hate it when you stress…”
“I’m aware,” I force myself to tease, though it’s strained.
Because Iamstressed. I don’t want to be, but it’s tough.
I’ve been overcome with worry for weeks now… Shit,months.
Something is wrong… I can feel it in my bones.
But, like I have been since our phone calls began going unanswered, I attempt to push it out of my head, showing my fiancé a smile that’s certified organic. Because if anyone can draw me out of the depths of distress, it’s Kellan freaking Kemper.
“You know, the meeting’s not until ten…” I lick my lip, taunting his deep blue gaze. “If you fuck me on the kitchen counter while I make your breakfast, that’s like, two birds with one stone, right?”
Kemper rumbles a seductive chuckle, dropping his hungry mouth to my throat. “That’s mighty pragmatic of you…101.”
Shivering, I rake my fingers through his golden hair while he kisses lower, teasing my chest and pushing my thighs apart roughly enough that I gasp. “Mmff… fuck me, Officer…”
Chest kisses evolve into him kissing my dick, and before you know it, it’s in his mouth and he’ssuckingthe stress right out of me.
Not the plan, but it works wonders. I make it to my meeting with only seconds to spare, sore muscles and sufficiently drained balls.
For a hot second, it’s looking like I might win this round ofDascha versus Overthinking. But then my new potential client gives me the details of the job.
“So I’m thinking candy apple red,” Rodrigo—this dude who collects classic cars I met through another customer—says, paying for both of our coffees at the truck we always go to, just up the beach from our house.
“Gracias,” I murmur, taking a tentative sip. It kinda burns, but it’s too good to wait.
“De nada. With the shimmer. Tu sabes? Like thatold schoolvibe… And the pin-striping to match the wheels.”
I nod along with his ideas, already visualizing it in my head. “What kind of car is it again?”
“A sixty-seven SS,” he tells me, and I pause. “Chevelle.”
Fuck.
I fix my face before he realizes that I’m gaping at him. But it doesn’t stop my brain from fixating on that one word, spiraling around it for the duration of our meeting. A meeting that has absolutelynothingto do with that island, or my friends back in New York, whom I haven’t heard from in weeks.
Overthinking: 1. Dascha… 0.
When I get home, my mind is tired, but my body is jacked with nervous energy. I take Sobaka for a walk to clear my head, but it’s not really working. I wind up pacing in such aggressive circles that Dog thinks it’s a game, and I’m making myself fucking dizzy.
