Page 61 of Manhattan Heart

He’s been in his home office for a few hours and I was just about to hunt him down to tell him it was enough working and he needs to rest.

He’s been dealing better with me taking care of him.

Not so grumpy Gray anymore.

His hands slide around my waist and he lays his lips to the side of my head again. “Tell me, baby-girl. Do we have new neighbors you’re trying to poison?”

I chuckle and nip my teeth on his stubble chin. “Look who’s the funny guy. You won’t get any meatballs and spaghetti for dinner if you keep this up.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Funny. I can cook. I just choose not to.”

“You look adorable and verywifely. It’s doing things to me.”

I swipe a finger through the simmering sauce that has taken me freaking hours to put together. I don’t know how people do this every day when it only takes three minutes to pour a bowl of cereal and eat it.

I hold it out for Gray. “Taste and tell me if it needs something.”

He sucks my finger instantly into his mouth and a bubbling brook of arousal starts low in my belly. More fires flash through me when he hums and eventually sets my finger free. “It’s perfectly tart. And the sauce is good too.”

He’s such a pill.

And thank Prada we’ve gotten through these past few weeks.

Seeing Gray even 5% less than his usually magnificent self really sent my emotions reeling and it’s something I’ve had to address in therapy.

“I’m a wife of many talents,” I boast because I know this six fucking hour sauce tastes good. It might be the only time I make it, because six fucking hours… or so it feels like, so I’m milking this success.

His hand moves down to my butt and I try not to moan.

“That you are. Want to put this on the back burner and come and sit on my lap.”

“Shall I tell you what I want for Christmas too?” I ask, smirking over my shoulder and I do put it on the back of the stove to marry the flavors, as mom put it, whatever that means.

“You can. Or you can tell me what you’d like for your birthday.”

This has me scowling.

Now, ordinarily I love birthdays.

All those gifts and attention on me. Yeah, I like the fanfare and hoopla. Mostly for the last few years because Gray does birthday attention like no one else. He spoils me rotten.

But this birthday… I’m ignoring it.

It’s one of those vile numbers no women ever want to face, because it’s the number that takes me out of my twenties.

I should be glad to be leaving them.

My twenties have not been the best to me, except for the last few years, and all to do with this man who’s pulling me across his lap once he leads me through to the living room.

It’s a horrible number and I don’t have to face it if I don’t want to.

“Come on, I know you want something.” He cajoles, his chin rests on my shoulder and his fingers play around the skin of my belly where my shirt has rode up.

“Nothing.” I grump and Gray laughs.

He knows.

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