Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
"Did you blow him in the backroom?"
"That is so not hot. Stop asking."
"Fine, Danny. Did you blow him somewhere hot?"
"Where would that be?" I ask.
"I don't know. Apparently, you're very picky."
"Yes, god forbid I don't want to drop to my knees in front of my boss's office. On the cold, hard concrete."
"I know. Very picky."
I can't help but laugh. Remy is… Remy. He's not afraid to make noise or take up space.
"Was it some boring normal place? A bed? Ugh, I hate when guys lie down for it. The least they could do is stand up."
"These are too many details."
"You're no fun, but fine." He drops the teasing tone. "Is it a sex thing?"
"No."
"But he is paying you?"
"Yes."
"I know you're an artist, but last time I checked, you can do math."
I motion get to the point.
"Two plus two makes four."
"He's helping out," I say. "That's all."
"'Cause he likes fucking you."
"Because he likes me." That is what Adam said. He's paying me because he likes me. Because he doesn't want his family to worry.
Remy is right. It doesn't add up.
Something is missing.
But what? I've seen his moody mansion. I have no doubt his brothers worry.
He's a man with money.
I'm an attractive young woman who needs money.
Maybe it's that simple.
"Because he likes me and wants more time with me," I say. "He's a little bit reclusive."
Remy's eyebrows raise.
"His brother died a year ago," I say. "And he… he hasn't been ready to face people yet."
"When did you meet him?"
"Through work."
"When?" he asks.
"Recently."
"You recently met a rich dude, and he's paying you to live at his house, but it's not a sex thing."
"It's not."
"Do you think I'm stupid? Or just gullible?"
"It wouldn't bother you if it was true?"
"You doing this Pretty Woman thing? Nah." He shrugs. "As long as it's for you. And he has a big dick."
"Oh my god."
"Danny, no. No micro-penises!"
My laugh gets louder.
"You're going to have to send me a picture now."
"Not that kind of picture."
"But you have one?"
"No."
He reaches for my purse.
I grab it just in time.
He shakes his head fine and pulls his phone from his pocket instead.
Remy taps Adam Pierce into a search engine.
And, in that one instant, everything changes.
Recognition floods his expression. "The rich guy who killed his brother?"
"He didn't kill his brother."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the pictures of them together," I say. "They're happy."
"Danny." The humor drops from his expression.
"He didn't."
"But he… he could be dangerous."
Of course. But that's a given. Men are always dangerous.
They're bigger, stronger, more powerful.
Adam would be dangerous if he was as broke as I am.
But now, with all his money—
He could destroy me any way he wants.
"Now you know how I feel," I say. "When you go home with strange men."
He sits back, studies the photo on his phone. Adam and his late brother, Sebastian, at a gala. Sebastian is giving him bunny ears. Adam is shaking his head my silly younger brother. "You trust him?"
I trust him not to hurt me. Maybe I shouldn't, but I do. "Yes."
"He's super hot."
I nod.
"There's nothing post-accident. Is he all mangled now?"
"He has scars," I say. "But the imperfection is beautiful."
His eyes fill with doubt, but he shakes it off. "Are his eyes that blue?"
"They are."
"And his bod?"
I haven't seen it up close, but I can tell he's in good shape. "It's good."
"Are you serious, Danny? Good. Good is your detail?"
"Sure is."
"You're horrible."
"Thank you."
He laughs. "He looks like he has a big dick."
"Oh my god."
"What? He does?" Remy sets his phone on his thigh and he looks to me. "Promise you'll tell me if you need help."
I'm not sure if that's a promise I can keep, but I nod anyway. "I promise."
Chapter Eight
Danielle
After we finish our coffee, Remy and I say goodbye, and I meet Bree in the private dressing room on the first floor.
It's the size of my apartment, complete with a small stall, a three-panel mirror, a podium, a leather armchair, and a matching fainting couch.
Bree already has half a dozen racks of clothes in the space.
Casual, work, cocktail, activewear even.
For an hour, she dresses me in proper winter clothes. Sweaters, jeans, tall boots, thick dresses, scarves in accent colors.
Then she really kicks into gear. "Let me measure you properly, sweetheart. I want to see if you're wearing the right bra size."
I do away with my current outfit—a snug magenta dress and impossibly tall boots—and turn to face her.
It's funny. I'm comfortable posting nude photos on my site, but with Bree studying my unmatching bra and panties, I feel impossibly naked.
My cheeks flush. My chest too.
She doesn't notice. Or she doesn't mention it. Just wraps the tape around my bust, ribs, waist, hips.
She takes another half a dozen measurements, scribbles them in a tiny leather notebook, steps back to admire her blank canvas.
"You have a lovely figure, Danielle," she says. "Quite the hips."