Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Typical rich guy’s woman stuff in an atypical rich guy’s world.
So, why the hell haven’t I been able to stop thinking about him for even a second?
“You’re moping, dear,” Gran says from across the dining room table.
“I promise you I’m not, Gran,” I lie firmly.
I look up from the puzzle piece I’ve been turning over in my hand, pondering it without really seeing it, then offer it to her.
She’s putting together a thousand-piece puzzle of blooming hollyhocks. It’s one of the many things that keep her busy so she doesn’t go stir crazy from not being able to spend as much time outdoors with her plants.
“Eleanor Lark. Haven’t I known you since the day they cut your umbilical cord?” She gives me a knowing look over the rims of her glasses, then plucks the puzzle piece from my fingers. “Stop moping and call that grumbly young man right this instant.”
As if.
I refuse to look at her.
I only have August’s number because Debra hastily tucked his business card in my pocket before I was ushered out the door that fateful day.
“Let’s say I do. I pick up the phone, I call, I pester him, and what then?” I prop my chin in my hands, waiting for her wisdom. “Say, ‘Hey, casual business partner paying me to be his fake fiancée, missed you really hard. You’re kinda weird and grumpy, but I have a lot of fun poking you. Wanna talk for no reason at all?’”
She gives me the patient look only saintly grandmothers can, then inspects the bright-pink puzzle piece and sets it aside in a pile of other pink pieces.
“That’s a sensible start. It’s honest.” She picks up a green-and-yellow piece, studying it a bit too deliberately. “He is a handsome young man, you know.”
Holy hell, I can’t.
I stick my tongue out.
I know what she’s trying to suggest, but it’s not going to work.
“Did you miss the part where he’s not the least bit interested in me, Gran?”
“Ever the pessimist! What makes you so sure of that, Elle?” She smiles with mock innocence and works the piece in. She’s making her way from the outside toward the center, the border already assembled in a rectangle.
My jaw drops.
I try to dredge up an answer, but the words won’t come.
She’s got me good.
“Some men don’t always say what they mean, dear. Many boys can barely read their own feelings.”
I snort. “Well, he’s made his pretty clear. Honestly, I wonder if he likes women at all . . .”
Grandma was reaching for another piece—but now she freezes, blinking at me. “Oh. Oh, I see. So it’s that kind of situation.”
“No!” I hiss back immediately. “I’m not his companion beard.”
That much, I’m sure of.
So maybe I’m exaggerating, and I know it.
He may not like me as a person, but I’m still a woman, and August Marshall isn’t dead.
He’s just the next best thing—entirely wedded to his work, far too busy with his demanding empires to cast a longing look at the army of supermodels fawning over Mr. Eligible. Let alone boring old me.
Chewing my inner cheek, I eye my amused grandmother sourly.
God, I’m so confused.
It’s like being his fake fiancée has turned me into a mini version of August today. All grumps and glares and sad thoughts.
Gran’s teasing isn’t helping, either, but I guess I really am her granddaughter, since I enjoy messing with him like this far too much.
“I think he was married once,” I continue, reaching for one of her unsorted pieces. It’s dark green with yellow speckles. Part of the background, I think, where the little yellow flowers create a backdrop for the hollyhocks. I sort it into the right pile for her and sigh deeply. “I think the headlines were calling him a ‘black widow’ or something. I don’t know. I just don’t think he has any use for a woman in his life right now, practical purposes aside. Especially not me.”
“People aren’t made to be used, dearest heart. Women, like men, are made to enjoy,” Grandma says firmly. “Frankly, I can’t imagine any man who wouldn’t cherish your company.”
“You haven’t met this guy, Gran.” I cough. “I mean, you have, but you haven’t spent enough time around him.” I shrug. “If he wanted to talk to me, he’d have called me.”
“Does he have your number?” Grandma quirks a brow and fits in another puzzle piece.
I blink, sit up straighter, and replay the entire chaotic morning in my memory.
Showing up at my door, whisking me off for a shopping spree, talking in the back of the car.
Oh, plus the way he looked at me and made my stomach go weird with butterflies when I walked out in that dress, went into his office, and met his sister, and then she gave me his number, but I never gave either of them mine.