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“There’s one thing I can say with certainty, Skye Warren never fails to deliver a heartfelt, slightly dark, I can’t stop turning the pages story. This one is no different.” – Di, Twisted Sisters
Here is a short sample from the book:
The last few years have brought a lot of firsts for me. First time looking into a camera and saying a line. First time kissing a man I hated. First time falling in love with a man I hated. First time leaving my hometown. First time at Cannes. First time house-hunting. First time . . . well. If I list them all here you’ll fall asleep from the boredom. I’ll skip to today. First time I kill my husband.
Easy there. I can feel you getting all stiff in your seat. You don’t need to point out that I’m married to the Sexiest Man in America, according to People Magazine. Or that my husband and I are “just made for each other” according to Mama. Or that the man takes my breath away by just smiling at me and makes my skin heat with need by frowning. I know all of that. But the man . . . oh, I want to kill him right now.
“Cole Masten, you’ve got three minutes to get that damn bird out of our pool!” I stand on the pool deck, the pavers warm beneath my bare feet, and yell loud enough that a gardener pokes his head up and over a bush.
Cole ignores me, pushing out of the water and perching on the edge of the pool, watching proudly as Cocky swims in a half circle. Swims. I lived in the country over two decades, and I have never seen a chicken swim, not once my entire life. The first time Cole put him in the pool, I bolted out of my chair and was across half the yard, diving in fully clothed only to find out the damn bird paddled around like a duck.
“Cole.” I growl his name and he lifts his head, resting his palms on the edge of the pool and squinting up at me. Shirtless and squinting. I feel my heartbeat increase despite myself.
“Summer,” he counters.
“You got fifteen kids who are gonna be here before we know it, and I’m not having them swimming around in chicken poo water.”
“Fifteen? Who invites fifteen kids to a three-year-old’s party?”
“Get. Him. Out.”
“Shh . . .” he gently lifts Cocky out of the water and holds him to his chest. “You’re hurting his feelings.”
I’m telling you, I am going to kill him. I watch Cocky lift his tail and know, my lips not moving fast enough, what is about to happen. “Cole!” I shout, pointing my hand, and he lifts Cocky away from him in just enough time to see him ruin our spotless pool.
I stare at the water, a long white stream of poo reacting with our chlorine, misting through the water, leaving a trail of bacteria that can’t be Chloroxed clean. I don’t take my eyes off it. I can’t, because I know what would happen if I do. The abs in my peripheral vision shake, and I can’t help myself, my eyes darting to Cole, who still holds the rooster out, his abs taunt as he laughs. “Come on . . . Summer,” he says, Cocky tilting his head at me as if confused. “The timing’s funny.”
“It’s not funny,” I insist, feeling the edges of my mouth betraying me, and I scrunch up my forehead, insistent that I retain my anger in this situation. “It’s infuriating! Do you know how . . .” oh God, I am going to laugh, “how much bacteria is in that—?” The giggle comes out, Cole’s own laugh pushing it to the surface, and I clamp a hand to my mouth, trying to keep it in, trying to muster enough indignation to give the man a proper dressing down, one he’ll remember, one vehement enough that he’ll stop giving the damn chicken swimming time. I step back when I see him heft himself out of the pool and to his feet, setting Cocky on the ground and striding toward me, his grin wide, his eyes on me.
“Nooo,” I warn, my giggles drying up as soon as I see his intention, my hands out in guard, a useless defense as he wraps his arms around me, squeezing me tight, his wet body ruining my Vera Wang shift dress, one that had been flown in from Vera herself specifically for this party, for the photo shoot that would accompany it, a mountain of ridiculousness over a birthday that should be celebrated with cupcakes, balloons, and some new binkies.
“Ooh . . .” I breathe. “Jasmine is going to kill you.” Jasmine, the publicist, the one who handpicked this ruined dress, the woman who is due any minute and who has absolute fits over things like wilted tulips and me getting my hair done at SuperCuts.
“She can kill me,” he says, squeezing me tighter, his embrace lifting me off the pool deck. “It’s worth it.”
“For Cocky’s swim?” I sputter, pushing off his chest.
“No,” he says, and then I am over his shoulder, the leather dress riding up my thighs, my struggle slippery against his wet skin, and he reaches up and smacks me on the butt, hard enough that I squeak. “Stop struggling,” he orders, jogging up the back steps, and I have to stop, if only to hold on.
He lays me on our bed, following me closely, my escape impossible as he is suddenly on top of me, wet thighs between my dry one, his bathing suit cold against my panties, and he smiles down at me as he lowers his mouth to mine. “Haven’t I told you what your giggle does to me?”