Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Chapter 46
5 MONTHS AGO
“You won’t marry me.”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“It’s the beginning of a question.”
“So… finish it.”
“I would, if you’d stop talking long enough to let me.”
I looked up from the pile of fruit before me, my hands on an orange that would have to be good enough, nothing else in the pile soft. I grinned at Brant. “So talk.”
He tossed a mango my way, weaving through the roadside stands until he was closer to me. “You won’t marry me… but why aren’t we living together?”
Yes, why Layana? I searched my brain for an acceptable answer, other than Lee. Pretty sure Lee wouldn’t agree to fucking my brains out on Brant’s bed. Then again… I had my downtown condo, the one that Molly and Marcus didn’t break in properly. It deserved a good round of fuckery. “Maybe,” I finally said, moving to the side, in front of the limes, Brant’s hand pulling at the back of my sweater, moving cashmere in a way that shouldn’t be moved.
“Maybe?” He wrapped an arm around me. Nipped at the back of my neck before staring down at me with a somber expression. “Maybe is your answer to my proposals.”
“It’s a good answer.” I smiled up at him. Raised onto my tiptoes and kissed his lips.
“It’s a horrible answer,” he grumbled, pulling me back when I tried to turn away. “Do you love me?”
I stopped. Set my basket down and wrapped my hands around his waist. Looked up into his face, the face that I loved more than life itself. “Of course I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.”
He leaned forward. Brushed my lips so softly I closed my eyes. Needed more. “Then move in with me,” he whispered. “Be my illegitimate girlfriend.”
“That wouldn’t be proper,” I said against his mouth.
“Then marry me,” he said, giving me a strong kiss and pulling off. Glancing around us with an exaggerated expression. “Do you want me to do it? Kneel down right here?” He patted his pockets, pretended to fish for a ring I knew damn well was in his office safe.
“No!” I cried. “For God’s sake, no. I will move in with you,” I promised, wrapping my arms around his neck and stealing one last kiss.
“You promised?”
“I promise.” Then I shrieked, his hands swooping me up, our basket tipping over, fruit rolling to all ends of the aisle. “Brant, what are you doing?”
“House-hunting.” He hugged me to his chest, deftly moving through the crowd, my head craning for our basket.
“What about the fruit?”
“I’ll buy you a house with an orchard,” he promised, setting me gently down on the ground next to his car, his hand opening the door and holding it open for me.
“Now?” I asked dumbly, stepping up into the cab, watching his face as he shut the door and moved around to the driver’s side.
“Now.”
“I thought I’d just move into your house.” House was really the wrong word for it. Mansion. Fifty thousand square feet of space he barely used. A basement lab he had spent ten million dollars outfitting. He couldn’t move. Wasn’t possible.
“It’s my house. I want our house. A place to build our future. A place you pick out.” He shifted into gear and tossed his phone into my lap. “Call Jill. Find out which realtor I should use, then get them on the phone.”
Our house. I dialed Jillian and wondered how well this would go over with Lee. Maybe I was making a mistake.
I bought my first house a week after my twenty-fifth birthday. Had a budget of three million dollars. Went crazy and spent four. Looked at twelve different homes before coming to the difficult decision of choosing one. With Brant, I expected even more of a production. It turned out to be ridiculously simple.
In my prior, paltry price range, I’d had to make decisions. Did I want the outdoor kitchen or the sun porch? The indoor theatre or a library? An oceanfront office or spare bedroom?
In Brant’s price range, every house had everything. And there were only three to choose from. The realtor offered a limo, but we drove Brant’s Aston Martin, winding toward the coast, the homes fifteen miles apart. Everything we could ever want for thirty million dollars.
It was an easy decision. The first one was a palace of ostentatious details, hand-painted ceilings, and heavy velvet drapes. It screamed old wrinkly money, and came complete with maids’ quarters and an entire floor dedicated to formal rooms we would never use. It did have a ballroom, a huge expanse I envisioned using in a variety of ways, the foremost being a skating rink for our future children. But the consensus, a look shot between Brant and I upon our exit, was that it was a no.
Windere was the second property, an estate high on the cliff, owned at one point in time by the Kennedys. It had four gated acres, nine bedrooms, tennis courts and an elevator that carried us the 42 stories down to the beach. It also came with a two-bedroom beach house, at the base of the elevator, a twelve hundred square foot gem with an attached spa and second pool. It had privacy, needed a staff of at least eight, and was a good half hour from Palo Alto, but it was comfortable. Modern. Us. It also had a six-thousand square foot basement. We were sold.