“Y-yes,” she stammers.
Smiling brightly, I squeeze her shoulders like adults do to children. “Glad to hear it.” I gesture towards her car. “Have a nice day.”
The normally confident woman suddenly seems so nervous, and I have the urge to yell, “Boo!” to see if she screams, but I don’t. Instead, once I’m satisfied she’s leaving with no intention of coming back, I walk back into the house.
It’s still quiet, which means my altercation with Charlotte didn’t wake Branson up. In the kitchen, it takes me a few minutes to find everything I’m looking for, but once I do, the heavenly smell of coffee permeates the air as it brews.
Taking advantage of my time alone in the house, I wander through it, soaking up the masculinity and warmth. I could live here. The idea pops into my head without warning and I stumble a little as I consider it. I suppose that’s where we are headed, neither of us being the type to date simply for the sake of dating.
My hand runs over the back of a brown, worn, leather couch as I wander into the living room. There’s a large TV on the wood mantel of the stone fireplace, flanked by more of the floor-to-ceiling windows that also run along the back of the house. To the left of the couch is the matching loveseat, and to the right is a large armchair. The room might feel empowered by testosterone if it weren’t for the hints of warmth that are sprinkled across the space. Whether they were done by his own accord or his mother’s doing, I can’t be certain, but I like them.
The leather of the couch is offset by a series of yellow pillows, some solid and others with patterns that play off the color of the wood flooring. On the coffee table were fresh flowers, and throw blankets adorned the armrests of the various seating arrangements.
All in all, this room and the others in the house were exactly Branson: the perfect balance of masculinity, power, class, and most of all, happiness.
When I return to the kitchen, the coffee is ready, so I pour a mug for each of us. Then I pad back into the bedroom, where he’s still asleep, the morning sun making the strands of honey in his brown hair stand out.
After placing the coffee mugs on the bedside table, I lie on my stomach next to him so I can admire how gorgeous he is as I place a light kiss on his full lips. But also because, if I’m honest, my injury flamed up a little, thanks to our activities the night before.
He stirs at my touch, his face coming alive but his eyes not opening. “Why are you wearing clothes?” he huffs, rubbing a hand over my back.
“There was a knock on the door. I woke up,” I answer nonchalantly.
Opening one eye at a time, he frowns. “Who was it?”
“Wrong house,” I tell him before dropping another kiss on his lips. “I made coffee.”
Sitting up, he leans his back against the wooden headboard. “I knew I loved you for a reason,” he whispers, taking the mug from my outstretched hand.
“Ouch.” I sigh dramatically, laying my head down so I can look up at him. “Did you sleep well?”
Winking at me, he takes a sip. “Like a rock.”
“Your house is beautiful,” I tell him, realizing in saying that I’ve confessed to snooping around while he was asleep.
“Good”—he kisses the top of my messy hair—“‘cause you’ll be living here just as soon as I can convince you to.”
I gape at him as he climbs off the bed, his perfect, naked cowboy ass strutting into the bathroom.
“Were you planning on mentioning that to me at any point in time?” I ask, quickly following behind him.
He sets the mug on the bathroom counter before turning the shower on and testing its temperature with his hand. “Mentioning that as opposed to what?”
I know the smartass is taunting me on purpose, but it does nothing to deter me from letting it get under my skin.
“As opposed to bashing me over the head and dragging me here like a caveman.” I tap my foot, waiting for him to give me clarification.
While I do enjoy a good alpha moment now and again, I consider myself very much his equal. Thus decisions like moving in together are things I would hope we could make together. Even if I were ignoring the little butterflies floating around in my stomach at the mention of living together.
“If I thought for even a second you would move in if I did that, I would, but I know you better than that, London. Nonetheless, you will live here sooner rather than later, I hope.” He kisses my lips before stepping under the shower spray. “Are you coming?”
My body finally recognizes that he’s completely naked—and not only that, but he’s hard as a rock. “Um.” The synapses in my brain fire off in rapid succession. “I . . . uh . . .”
“You uh what, exactly, darlin’?” He flashes a cocky grin, running a soapy hand across his midsection.
The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “I’m coming.” My voice drops to a sultry purr only he can draw out.
After sliding my panties down my legs, I pull his shirt over my head.
He’s busy massaging shampoo into his hair as I step under the spray. I only stand next to him for a second before kneeling.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice deep and raspy.
Licking my lips, I look up at him. “Making you glad I came.”
“THE TRANSFER ON THE BROOKSWOOD Estate went through this morning, and we have thirty-six hours remaining on Kensington Plaza.” Dave from my accounts department is droning on about the comings and goings of our business ventures, and while I should be paying more attention, I find the entire process excruciating when it keeps me away from my girl later than I expected.
My watch reads six-fifteen p.m., and I inwardly grown. After pulling out my phone, I frown when I don’t see a message from London. She always messages me a selfie of her and Street during their evening turn in, and that should have been at least thirty minutes ago.
It’s been three weeks since the first night she stayed at my place, and I’ve been insatiable since. There’s rarely a morning I don’t wake up with her in my arms, and I want to spend the rest of my life on this Earth seeing her eyes.
“Mr. Tucker?”
Lifting my gaze across the boardroom table, I see Lydia’s head stuck through the door. “Yes?”
Her face is scrunched in concern, and immediately, I begin to worry.
“Larry Daniels called. He wasn’t sure of your cell number and called the office instead.”
“What’s wrong?” I’ve already stood up, and I grab my briefcase as I walk towards her.
“London suffered a fall earlier this evening. She’s at Alberta General now.”
Before the last word is out of her mouth, I’m in a full jog through the office. Forty-five minutes and, by the grace of God, no speeding tickets later, I’m throwing the Corvette in park outside the emergency room.
Running through the doors, I head straight to the nurses’ station. “My girlfriend, London Daniels, was brought in a while ago,” I rush out, one word tripping after the next.
“I’m just on hold. I’ll look that up in just one minute for you, sir,” the older woman behind the desk says.
“Where the hell is she?!” I shout across the desk.
“Easy, cowboy.”
My head swings to the side to find London sitting in a wheelchair being pushed by her brother.
“I’m right here. No need to yell at the innocent hospital staff.”
I want to scream that this isn’t the time to make jokes; my heart’s leaping from my chest, and I have to swallow the panic that’s been building over the last hour.