baking cookies. Groaning, he rolled to his side and glanced at his travel alarm clock. The electronic readout showed o-three-hundred. Wide awake and plagued by pangs of hunger, he cursed the existence of jet lag, a biological inconvenience not even the military could train out of him.
He lay on a king-sized bed, covered in satin sheets. A memory foam mattress molded to his shape. Pale moonlight poured through the glass panels to his left. A wall-mounted sixty-inch LED television faced him. Underneath it, a multimedia system sat on top of a built-in chest of drawers that reached the ends of the large room. Sliding wood doors to his right opened to a mosaic-tiled guest bath.
The massaging shower he’d taken before crashing had gone a long way toward alleviating the physical effects of a seventeen-hour flight, but it took a moment before his mind reconciled the plush surroundings with memory. He’d woken in one of the many guest rooms in his wife’s Dubai penthouse. Nothing about the location descriptor fit his preconceived notions about Brennan. While he’d always known she’d come from money, she’d never flaunted it. During the four years they’d lived together, their lifestyle had been quintessentially middle class. He now realized she’d gone out of her way to stay within his means rather than hers.
In his boxers, he padded along a hallway to a living room three times the square footage of the townhouse they once shared. Despite its size, he felt like a bull in a china shop. Decorated with his wife’s petite size in mind, the furnishings, wall hangings, and light switches were placed in an ideal position for someone a few inches over five feet. He stood a foot taller.
When they’d moved in together, his preference for clean lines and extreme minimalism had guided the decor, even though, all-totaled, he’d lived in their house for less than two months out of the year. Every space in their small abode had been sparse, functional, and neat. Her new home couldn’t be more different, prompting him to wonder if she’d made it that way on purpose. Souvenirs from all corners of the globe sat atop ornate wooden chests. A zoo of glass figurines filled an antique display cabinet. Porcelain lamps sporting hand-painted shades rested on delicate side-tables topped with inlaid wood and brass.
Over a dozen holly wreaths adorned the interior walls. A large artificial Christmas tree stood in front of a low boxy sofa set that could seat a small army, the wiry metal base obscured by clear bowls filled with red and green pinecones. The city’s bright lights twinkled through thick panes of glass and reflected off ornaments hanging from the tree’s branches.
Following his nose, he navigated through the dark room to the kitchen. Brennan leaned against a granite-topped island, her fluffy white bathrobe stretching from her neck to the floor. Her hair was twisted up and clipped with what looked like a cylindrical silver comb. She held a pink silicone spatula in one hand and a large mixing bowl in the other. In front of her lay half a dozen small containers. “Did I wake you?”
Rubbing his eyes, he deposited himself on a swiveling stool across from her. “My stomach woke me. Those don’t smell like sugar cookies.”
She placed the items in her hand on the wax-paper-lined counter. “I’m trying a new recipe—strawberry tea-infused shortbread.”
His nose scrunched up. “It doesn’t sound appetizing.”
“So you don’t want any?”
“Even you aren’t so heartless.” He toyed with one of the small colorful pieces of ceramic. “What are these for?”
She pointed to an array of dark-tinted bottles with food-coloring labels. “I need green, red, white, and pink icing.”
He returned the bowl to its original spot. “Since when is pink a Christmas color?”
“It is when I’m baking.”
Blood had pooled to his groin since his arrival, and his cock jutted high enough he shifted in his seat. After a two-year
He lay on a king-sized bed, covered in satin sheets. A memory foam mattress molded to his shape. Pale moonlight poured through the glass panels to his left. A wall-mounted sixty-inch LED television faced him. Underneath it, a multimedia system sat on top of a built-in chest of drawers that reached the ends of the large room. Sliding wood doors to his right opened to a mosaic-tiled guest bath.
The massaging shower he’d taken before crashing had gone a long way toward alleviating the physical effects of a seventeen-hour flight, but it took a moment before his mind reconciled the plush surroundings with memory. He’d woken in one of the many guest rooms in his wife’s Dubai penthouse. Nothing about the location descriptor fit his preconceived notions about Brennan. While he’d always known she’d come from money, she’d never flaunted it. During the four years they’d lived together, their lifestyle had been quintessentially middle class. He now realized she’d gone out of her way to stay within his means rather than hers.
In his boxers, he padded along a hallway to a living room three times the square footage of the townhouse they once shared. Despite its size, he felt like a bull in a china shop. Decorated with his wife’s petite size in mind, the furnishings, wall hangings, and light switches were placed in an ideal position for someone a few inches over five feet. He stood a foot taller.
When they’d moved in together, his preference for clean lines and extreme minimalism had guided the decor, even though, all-totaled, he’d lived in their house for less than two months out of the year. Every space in their small abode had been sparse, functional, and neat. Her new home couldn’t be more different, prompting him to wonder if she’d made it that way on purpose. Souvenirs from all corners of the globe sat atop ornate wooden chests. A zoo of glass figurines filled an antique display cabinet. Porcelain lamps sporting hand-painted shades rested on delicate side-tables topped with inlaid wood and brass.
Over a dozen holly wreaths adorned the interior walls. A large artificial Christmas tree stood in front of a low boxy sofa set that could seat a small army, the wiry metal base obscured by clear bowls filled with red and green pinecones. The city’s bright lights twinkled through thick panes of glass and reflected off ornaments hanging from the tree’s branches.
Following his nose, he navigated through the dark room to the kitchen. Brennan leaned against a granite-topped island, her fluffy white bathrobe stretching from her neck to the floor. Her hair was twisted up and clipped with what looked like a cylindrical silver comb. She held a pink silicone spatula in one hand and a large mixing bowl in the other. In front of her lay half a dozen small containers. “Did I wake you?”
Rubbing his eyes, he deposited himself on a swiveling stool across from her. “My stomach woke me. Those don’t smell like sugar cookies.”
She placed the items in her hand on the wax-paper-lined counter. “I’m trying a new recipe—strawberry tea-infused shortbread.”
His nose scrunched up. “It doesn’t sound appetizing.”
“So you don’t want any?”
“Even you aren’t so heartless.” He toyed with one of the small colorful pieces of ceramic. “What are these for?”
She pointed to an array of dark-tinted bottles with food-coloring labels. “I need green, red, white, and pink icing.”
He returned the bowl to its original spot. “Since when is pink a Christmas color?”
“It is when I’m baking.”
Blood had pooled to his groin since his arrival, and his cock jutted high enough he shifted in his seat. After a two-year
Similar Books
![MINE! [New World Book 8]](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/503196/thumbs/152x264/mine-new-world-book-8.jpg)
