Page 7 of Ever Mine

Kelsie laughs. “I’ll grab that coffee, but don’t think you’re going to get out of here without having at least one pastry.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Gah, that accent. It’s unfair how all-together yummy he is. Oof, those thoughts should come with warning lights or something. I frantically shove my papers into my bag. “I should, uh, get back to work. I’ve got a meeting.”

“It’s your day off,” Kelsie says, Thorne’s coffee cup in hand.

“Still. Meeting. Very important.”

I stand too quickly, knocking over my water bottle. Thorne rights it with one large hand, his fingers brushing mine.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“I fear this water bottle is too dangerous for you.” He says, eyes glinting.

I manage a laugh that sounds only slightly strangled, then escape out the door, dignity trailing behind me like toilet paper on a shoe.

chapter

four

Thorne

The moment I realized the discarded notebook was Addison’s, I should have handed it over to her sister. That is not, however, what I did.

No, I’d put the sparkly pink spiral into my coat, and I’d left the bakery. With a cinnamon roll the size of my face. Addison’s sister hadn’t been making an idle threat. No, she’d cornered me and gently persuaded me to buy something—anything. I’d inquired about Addison’s favorite, and Kelsie had grinned broadly and handed over a package.

Now, I was home. Well, at least the place I stayed when I was in Saddle Creek. I hadn’t quite decided yet if I should move here permanently or keep my place in Austin. I could afford to do both, but that seemed unnecessary. I liked it here, far more than I’d anticipated when Ford persuaded me to come work for him.

I stash the pastry in my refrigerator, then settle at my desk with Addison’s notebook. When I flip it open, a rainbow of sticky notes cascades out. I set them aside and glance at her writing on the page. Her penmanship is cute and haphazard, just like she is. It’s like she starts at the top of the page with traditional cursive, but the more she writes, the looser her technique becomes. Until she’s got a mixture of print and cursive jammed together in each word.

I pause and consider when the fuck I became a forensic handwriting expert. Why is every aspect of this woman so fucking fascinating?

There is dialogue mixed in with the notes… she’s writing a story? It’s clearly a romance too… between a stodgy Duke and a cheeky woman. A historical romance of some variety. Not the genre I normally read, but somehow it seems to fit Addison.

What are the odds that the first woman I’ve found this distracting and alluring would also be a writer? I scoff. That feels like the universe is fucking with me.

Her notes—or rather outline, because I’m certain that’s what this is—have potential. A lot of potential, actually. She’s quite talented, and fuck if that doesn’t make her even more attractive, which frankly, I didn’t think was possible.

I pick up the sticky notes to put them back inside the notebook, but my eyes catch on a word. Virgin. Stupid Virgin! to be exact. I flip through the notes.

Stupid virgin!

Need a toe-curling kiss.

How to describe an orgasm?

Male sex noises?

What exactly does the hot lawyer smell like? Cedar and ??

I shove the stack of notes back into her sparkly book and close it. Now I know two interesting new pieces of information about the pretty Miss Blankenship.

One, she thinks I’m hot.

Two, she’s a virgin. Untouched in a way that has lust surging through my veins, making me feel … feral. There’s no other way to describe it. I don’t write paranormal romance, but this is what those authors are talking about when their characters go into a rut or heat.

Except, I’m merely a man, and normal men do not go into ruts. Especially ones from across the pond, as it were. Not that I can’t do passion, I can. But there’s something about Addison that brings out an alarming amount of feeling in me.