Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 138526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 554(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 554(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
His touch gets firmer, he brings me in closer and his face goes into my hair and neck. He inhales, his arms trapping me to his body so tight I can’t move at all. I’m not sure I want to.
But I have to.
I start to pull away, trying not to cry at his thoughtful gift and the moment we just shared.
“Merry Christmas, Ezra,” I breathe, pulling back completely, terrified that we’ll be caught in such an intimate embrace.
He lets me go and I see it in his eyes, longing. He doesn’t want to let me go any more than I wanted to make him.
He’s married, I remind myself again and reach for the suit.
I’m getting changed.
When I return to the party, Pax is waiting, looking around anxiously.
“What happened to the dress?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“That wasn’t a dress, it was a bikini in lace.” I’m mad at him because he should have been the one to make me feel how Ezra just made me feel.
He notices the look I cut him with and doesn’t argue. He does however glare at Mr. C who is talking to a group of men.
When he notices me looking, he waves me over and the two men and one woman look eager to meet me.
“I’ll be back,” I say to Pax and I’m grateful when he doesn’t follow me. I think he’s read my ire loud and clear.
Still wearing the shoes I wore to the party, I make my way to them, smiling and feeling a lot more confident than before.
“Father, this is my incredible PA, Rose,” Mr. C declares, introducing me to the well-dressed silver-haired man in the middle of the group. I stammer for a second on my breath because of how absolutely gorgeous he is, just like his son I suppose. Age has done him kind. “Rose, this is my father, the real Mr. Conti, and my mother…”
“It’s Izabella,” she finishes for him, kissing both of my cheeks. “And my husband, Mario. We’ve heard much about you.”
“Same,” I reply happily. “I’m the one who sends you gifts on your birthdays and anniversaries.”
“Hey,” Mr. C admonishes, smiling jokingly. “You’re not supposed to tell them that.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Too late now.”
“I like her,” Mario says, his older face cut with so many wrinkles you can tell he has smiled his entire life. “Maria talks of you fondly too.”
“She never stops.” Izabella exaggerates an eye roll. “I think she prefers you now to me.”
“I love her, she’s amazing. Such a sweet kid.”
“Do you have any children?” Izabella asks kindly.
“She’s too young to have children,” Mario puts in and I’m inclined to agree.
“No kids. I’m not even nearly ready for that. I don’t think I ever will be,” I admit with a crinkled nose. “I love kids but I’m not sure I could ever have my own. I like order too much.”
“She definitely likes order too much.” Mr. C says this with affection and no distain. He smiles down at me and winks, but I just can’t find the courage to meet his eyes. “It’s what makes her such a good PA.”
“I’m Bastion, by the way,” the older guy on Mario’s right says with a big grin. “Mario’s younger, more handsome brother.”
“Yeah, right,” Mario replies and Ezra chuckles along with him.
I shake his hand and kiss his cheek. “It’s nice to meet you all.”
“How long have you been working with my son?” Mario asks.
“Almost a year. January eighth I think it was.”
Ezra nods his confirmation. “I just can’t believe how fast the year has gone. Maria is ten now. It’s crazy to me.”
“I wish you’d had more babies,” Izabella remarks sadly.
“Not now, Mom.”
They fall silent for a beat, nobody looking at anybody in particular.
Awkward…
“Where is our daughter-in-law?” Mario asks, looking over the heads of all the guests.
“She’s overseeing the party, she’ll come to us eventually.”
Izabella pats her son’s cheek. “Tell her it’ll be nice to see her.”
“I will.”
“Well, as thrilling as you men are, I think I’m going to commandeer your PA and discuss this fabulous suit she’s wearing. Very daring.” Izabella takes my arm in hers and guides me away. I don’t look at Mr. C, not directly. After what happened upstairs, I’m almost too scared to. “Do you like gin?”
“I prefer whiskey, but I rarely say no when gin is offered,” I reply as we make our way to the bar.
“I used to love whiskey back in the day but now it gives me a sore throat.”
We spend an hour together in the lounge, giggling over drinks, talking about work and life. She almost cries when I tell her about my past, being carted from foster home to foster home with nothing but a black bag full of clothes and one teddy bear that got stolen and ripped when I was twelve.