Broken Process by Bethany Jadin

Author:Bethany Jadin [Jadin, Bethany]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jadin Press
Published: 2018-04-16T05:00:00+00:00

13

Gunner

My huge frame is stuffed into a bathtub that seems to be made for toddlers. For a minute, it makes me miss my behemoth tub back in the penthouse, but truth is, there is no other place I would rather be than right here, even if I have to squish myself into this sardine can.

I turn to Emma, a huge grin spreading on my face at the sound of her voice, and remove the tiny, silver frames. “Hey, not all of me could be perfect.”

She laughs then gestures at the book in my hand. “Are you still on The Count of Monte Cristo?”

I fold the book over an index finger to keep my place, showing her the cover with a beautiful black horse in full rear, its hooves pawing at the air. “Finished that one the other night. Then I started on Black Beauty.”

Emma uses her heel to shut the door behind her, closing us into the tiny room together. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Did you know people were real asses to horses back then? I mean, total assholes. I didn’t think this book was going to be this depressing.”

“It gets better,” she promises, lifting a bottle toward me — one of my chocolate stouts.

My eyes go wide. “Oh, hell! Where did you get that? I didn’t think there were any left.” I set the book down on the edge of the tub and accept my beer.

“It was hidden in the back of the fridge,” Emma says, lowering herself onto the closed lid of the toilet.

When I found the box of Emma’s bath stuff, it brought me back — way back. I used to love taking bubble baths when I was a kid, back when I actually would’ve fit in this tub. Once the girls had slipped off to bed, I decided to relive my childhood a bit, and now I’m wondering why I don’t do this every single weekend.

I probably used too much of everything, because I’ve seriously suds-upped the tub, and just the tops of my thighs and knees are peeking out of the water. But if Emma’s eyes keep darting to the mound of bubbles between my legs, something else is going to make an appearance.

“You know the way to my heart, foxy lady,” I tell her, cracking the cap off the bottle and taking a long pull.

“About that…” she starts, trailing off until she has my full attention.

I pull the bottle away from my lips and turn my head to her slowly, my stomach already in mid-fantasy. “Don’t tell me you made meatloaf. I swear to God, I’ll get out of this tub and go in the kitchen right now, in full glory with bubbles stuck to my ass. I don’t even care what kind of shrinkage I have going on.”

She throws her head back with a laugh. “No, sorry to disappoint you, but I haven’t cooked anything.” Her expression turns serious. “But, speaking of which… you know how you feel about meatloaf?”

“Your meatloaf? Hell, yeah,” I nod emphatically. “I could eat it all.

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