Page 29 of Chilled and Thrilled

“Well, in the spirit of merciless mocking, I’ve noticed something about you, Miss Nelson.” Taking an egg from the carton, I crack it into a bowl.

Sophie brightens. “Does this mean you’ve been looking for reasons I’m unappealing, too?”

Another egg joins the first, and I chuckle. “It’s been a lot of hopeless pining, unfortunately. This is a much more recent discovery.”

“This build up is very dramatic.”

I take my time putting the eggshells in the compost bin beneath the sink, rinsing my hands, and wiping them on thekitchen towel. Then, filled with smug satisfaction, I look up at her, grinning. “You snore.”

Instantly, both hands fly to cover her mouth as her eyes go round with horror. “I do not!”

“You do,” I confirm dryly, turning my attention to the cutting board and vegetables. “Don’t worry, it’s cute.”

A dramatic groan follows this statement. “Snoring isn’t cute, Bram.”

“Yours is.”

11

SOPHIE

It takes some persuading for Bram to let me load the dishwasher.

Breakfast was a peaceful affair, interrupted by lots of laughter, stolen kisses, and hands on my bare thighs. The man seemed reluctant to do anything without touching me, but an incoming call had him relinquishing control of the sink and slipping from the room with an apologetic grimace.

The moment he’s out of sight, my smile fades.

Does it make me a shit person for having a good time? I guess if I’m going to fuck Honor’s dad—repeatedly—and actively fantasize about marrying him, having his babies, and letting him do kinky stuff to me for the rest of our lives, my level of asshole has already maxed out.

Ergo, not going to worry about how appropriate my current level of enjoyment is.

Also not going to worry about what will happen when this storm ends, how I’m going to look Honor in the eye again, or what to do with the long-repressed feelings for Bram Vogel clawing their way to the surface all at once.

He gets me, like really gets me. Bram seems to have no trouble seeing through the fun, easygoing Sophie persona I’ve built for myself, and is making me feel all gooey and soft and exposed.

I’m in such deep shit.

We’re talking twenty thousand leagues under the shit.

Except, instead of embarking on an epic adventure aboard the Nautilus, I’ll be thrown out of my apartment and/or slapped across the face for doing the dirty with my best friend’s dad.

For now, however, all thoughts of moral correctness, classic literature, or my newfound gooeyness are suspended until further notice. All that is future Sophie’s problem, and hopefully that hoe can figure this out, because I sure can’t.

Bram interrupts my denial strategizing, reentering the room, grave faced. Just the sight of it sends my heart plummeting through the floor. “Everything okay?” I ask, my voice a pitch higher than usual.

Bram’s expression clears. “Absolutely fine. Work stuff.”

On Christmas Eve?

“Oh.” I close the dishwasher, trying to dismiss the unsettling suspicion that whatever that call was, it was most definitely not “work stuff.”

Sensing the shift in mood, and correctly guessing my fears, Bram sighs. “I promise, Sophie. It’s not about you, or us,” he amends, leaning back against the kitchen wall and folding his arms over his chest in one of those casual, handsome guy poses.

Shaking off the moment, I smirk, eyeing him. “How old are you again?”

His eyebrows lift. “Forty-four. Are you worried about my age, now?”

“Nope. I just don’t think you’re supposed to look like that at forty-four.”

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