Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
“Neither.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is it Mr. Morgan? Do you want to look extra nice for him?”
I stare at her reflection in the mirror we’re facing. “You’ve always told me that getting involved with your boss is a bad idea, Arietta.”
I haven’t told her that I know from personal experience, that it’s a fucking terrible idea.
She rests a hand on my forearm. “That’s because my boss is a tyrant. I sense that Keats isn’t like that.”
I hold back a smile. “I wouldn’t call him a tyrant.”
Arietta takes a half-step to the left so she’s standing side-by-side with me. She tugs on the bottom of her sweatshirt. “Would you call him handsome?”
“He’s average.”
Her face lights up with a megawatt smile. “Average? I saw a few pictures of him online, Maren. He’s not average.”
I turn to face her. “You think he’s handsome?”
She reaches to straighten the waistband of the red pencil skirt I’m wearing. “So do you. Admit it.”
I can’t deny it so I nod. “He’s good-looking.”
“You’re blushing.” She circles a finger in front of my face. “You like him, don’t you?”
I ignore that and drop my hands to my hips. “If I wear my red heels, is this the winner?”
She rakes me from head-to-toe. “It’s the winner and if Keats Morgan is the man for you, this outfit is going to knock his pants off.”
“Socks off,” I correct her.
“No.” Shaking her head, she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “The other two outfits you tried on would have knocked his socks off. This will knock his pants off.”
I tilt my head as I stare at my reflection. “I’ll go with this.”
“Take a seat on the chair, and I’ll work my makeup magic.” Arietta gestures to a gray armchair in the corner of my bedroom. “Mr. Morgan is about to be wowed by his assistant.”
Chapter 19
Keats
“You only come here for breakfast for two reasons.” My brother eyes me over the mug of coffee perched close to his mouth.
“The first is that I love you,” I say with a straight face. “The second is that I love your daughter more.”
Berk huffs out a laugh. “Try food or women.”
“I’ve tried both,” I quip. “If I had to choose, it would be food. Your pancakes, to be exact.”
My brother jerks a thumb toward the pantry in his kitchen. “Help yourself. I ate a bowl of cereal an hour ago. Stevie’s breakfast choice as of late is overnight oats and smoothies. If you want pancakes, you’re on your own.”
I drop onto one of the stools next to the massive granite topped island. “There was a time when you used to cook for me. You didn’t want to see me go hungry.”
Berk crosses the kitchen to pour a mug of coffee. On this way back toward me, he scoops an apple into his hand from a wicker basket. Both are placed in front of me. “Here’s your breakfast. Stop fucking whining.”
I bite into the apple. “You owe a hundred to the fund.”
With his mug back in his hand, he takes a sip of coffee. “Why the hell are you here at this hour?”
“You’re up to two hundred now,” I point out. “It’s after seven. Aren’t you the guy who always brags that he’s up by six a.m.?”
“That wasn’t an invitation for you to show up here.” He shoves his hand in my direction. “Give me back the keys, Keats. If you’re going to barge in here whenever you damn well feel like it, I’m going to decide whether I let you in.”
I pick up the keys and dangle them in the air. “You can’t take them back. Besides, I didn’t want to ring the bell. It would have woken Stevie up.”
Berk nods. “You can keep the keys, but only because I saw you creeping outside the house on the doorbell cam, so I knew you were on your way in.”
I shove the keys into the back pocket of my jeans. “Aren’t you glad I had that security system installed for you?”
When I had one installed in my townhouse, I decided Berk and Layna needed the same system. He scoffed at the idea at first, telling me that the Upper West Side is safe.
It is, but having the ability to open an app on your phone and talk to whoever the hell is ringing your doorbell is priceless. I had a ten minute conversation with a pizza delivery driver last year as he stood in the pouring rain on my stoop. I told him I didn’t order the five large pies in his hands. He insisted that I did.
I was right since I was lazing on a beach in the Caribbean at the time.
I felt sorry for the guy, so I paid electronically for the food and a tip. I sent him here to deliver dinner to my brother and his daughter.