Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
5512.
Part of me feels victorious that I’ve earned his key code. But another part wonders if this was always part of his plan. Lure me, tease me, toy with me. Then own me. On the way up, I sort through what I want to say. How to handle this. I don’t have a plan because I’m moving through a haze of anger and shock.
When I step out on his floor, I can practically smell the greenbacks. Everything here is sleek, chrome, white—the decor screams if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.
Rafe can afford anything. He’s all about money and honesty. That’s why he has that stupid fucking membership to his private club. Because he has more money than he knows what to do with.
When I reach his door, I rap loudly. Even my knock sounds irritated.
Rafe doesn’t make me wait. A few seconds later he opens the door, and I catch my breath with a hiss.
I missed him, and that makes me even madder.
He’s so stunning with those dark eyes and the chiseled cut of his jaw. He’s wearing blue jeans, something I’ve never seen him in. But I’m sure they cost a thousand dollars and they’re designer. He’s barefoot, and there’s something so sexy about that, as well as the crisp, charcoal-colored button-down that I want to rip off him.
My libido is not helping.
Nor is Rafe—the fucker didn’t shave this week. Rafe with stubble might be my favorite Rafe look. He’s Seductive Rafe tonight, because it seems he’s got a whole plan for me. Sexy music floats through an expensive sound system, a mix that sounds like D’Angelo or Sam Smith.
The man who wants me at any price holds a tumbler of scotch, the picture of cool.
“You’re here,” he says, so smooth and sexy. As if he knew all along I’d say yes to his arrangement.
Of course he did. He tried to buy my yes.
He leans in close like he’s going to give me a welcome-home kiss. I jerk my face away and step inside, kicking off my shoes. I don’t wait for him to tell me to take them off. Rafe is the type of guy who doesn’t let you walk around his home in your shoes.
In the living room, a stunning view pulls me toward to the floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the night beyond, the stars winking in the sky, the ballpark below.
I whistle. “Nice view.”
“It is. I rather enjoy being near the ballpark.” He says it like it’s an insider secret. He has so many secrets.
“Yeah? You’re not really a baseball fan though.” I toss it out like I’ve caught him in a lie.
“I think I’m becoming more of one,” he says and strides over to me. “I find I have quite an interest in the game these days.”
The game. That’s what I’ve always been to him. A fucking game. He who has the most money wins.
“Can I get you a drink, Gunnar? You seem tense.”
No shit, Rafe.
“Yes,” I say crisply. “I definitely need a drink for tonight.”
He arches an inquisitive brow, but he doesn’t follow it up. He has his plan of seduction, knowing I’m here and assuming I’ll just fall to my knees for him. I follow him to a liquor cart in the corner of the open living room, a bottle of expensive libation resting on a mirrored surface. He lifts the decanter full of bourbon, I presume, and pours some for me.
“Woodford Reserve Baccarat,” he says. “I thought you might like it, so I got it for you.” He hands me the dark liquid, another sign he’s trying to buy me. I’m not for sale, but I’m not turning down the bourbon.
I take the glass, and he lifts his. “A toast?” he asks.
This’ll be good. “What are we toasting to?”
“To our arrangement.”
That’s when I crack, hissing through gritted teeth. “Yeah, let’s talk about our arrangement. How you arranged for me.”
He blinks and steps back. “Excuse me?”
“You know what I mean,” I bite out.
“I don’t think I do, Gunnar.” He sounds genuinely flummoxed.
I’ll make it easy for him. First, I down the bourbon in my glass. The liquor scorches my throat and pushes me closer to my mission. Then, I set the tumbler on the liquor cart with a clink. “Why are you trying to buy me?”
His baffled frown deepens. “How am I trying to buy you?”
I scoff. “Give me a break. I’m not stupid.”
“Gunnar,” he says, his clipped tone on the edge of confusion and frustration. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But maybe you’d like to tell me.”
“Maybe you’d like to tell me why your company just made me an offer to be the spokesperson for the You Do You campaign?”
I’ve never seen Rafe Rodman caught completely off guard, wide-eyed and speechless.
“They made you an offer?” he asks when he recovers his voice and sets his glass down.