The Bloodfeather Promise by April Moran

Author:April Moran [Moran, April]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: April Moran Books
Published: 2019-06-07T16:00:00+00:00

This is so unlike me.

The afternoon of Emerson’s arrival, I am an absolute wreck.

I’ve probably checked on dinner five hundred times. The delicate grouper entrée must maintain the correct temperature. I’ve checked the wine more often than that, refilling the ice bucket twice. I don’t want the Batard-Montrachet to be anything less than perfectly chilled. At five hundred dollars a bottle, it’s a goddamn waste if the ice melts.

The head chef from The Shayla just left, with the promise of returning in the morning to pick everything up from the dinner arranged on the terrace. He’ll also prepare a gourmet breakfast fit for a king when he comes back.

If things go as planned, Emerson will be here, eating that breakfast with me.

She’ll be warm and sleepy in my bed when I roll her over. I’ll let her know the chocolate croissants and French-pressed coffee is ready. Does she like her eggs over easy or scrambled? Or would she rather have Eggs Benedict with fresh lump crabmeat and béarnaise sauce? Does she prefer her applewood bacon crispy or soft? What’s her preference for fruit? I’ll have anything she wants made available, no matter the expense.

Of course, it goes without saying I’ll make love to her again before allowing her out of my bed. I won’t be satisfied by one night of lovemaking with Emerson. My plan is we’ll spend every night together until I leave Sea Cove.

The buzzer for the gate sounds, jarring me out of my pleasant daydreams. I nearly break out in a cold sweat.

Jesus, Grey. Pull your shit together.

Pushing the button that allows the gates to swing open, I watch as she pulls around the cobblestone circular drive. I motion that she can park in front of the triple-tiered, stone fountain bubbling in the center of the flagstones. I half-thought she’d drive her little golf cart, but no, she’s in a white Tahoe. It’s an older model and looks entirely too big for her.

I exit the front door, trotting down the stone steps as Emerson slides out of the SUV. When she turns to retrieve something from the passenger seat, my feet suddenly stick to the cobblestones as though they are coated in superglue. The inside of my cheek is practically bitten to a pulp as she stretches from the driver’s side and across the console in an effort to reach the item. The movement puts her backside to me, and that sweet little ass of hers is temptingly displayed in an impossibly snug pair of black capri pants. One foot kicks up as she leans over even further. The strappy, rose gold sandals have enough of a heel to make her legs appear a mile long. Fluttering in a soft cloud of silk, the blouse matches the color of her shoes and leaves her shoulders bare.

Finally, she turns from the SUV holding a bouquet of Casablanca lilies and something else about the size of my palm. It’s square, wrapped in kraft paper, and tied with a simple aqua blue ribbon.

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