Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 137205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Sighing, I give up on annoying him and finish splattering my pages. Once I’m finished, I gather up all my paint supplies, wash out my brushes, and move my pictures to the long dining table we didn’t use before so they can dry.
Marie wakes up from her nap while I’m doing that and notices Calvin is home. She eyes him up, then prances right over and rubs up against his leg.
“Hey, girl,” he says, leaning down to pet her.
She purrs and pushes her head against his hand.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
“I’ll get Marie dinner while you shower and clean up for dinner,” Calvin says.
“What are we having tonight? Another five course meal, I presume?”
“Tonight we’re having vegetable tempura for an appetizer, then chicken teriyaki and teriyaki beef short ribs—two separate courses.”
“Of course.”
“Ryan will make enough chicken so he can prepare you a spicy chicken bowl for lunch tomorrow. Then for dessert, we’ll have a dish of mango ice cream.”
My mouth waters just hearing that menu. “That all sounds amazing.”
“Glad you think so.”
I turn, startled, at the sound of Chef Ryan’s voice. He flashes me a faint smile and heads to the kitchen with his totes full of supplies. “Oh, hello,” I say a bit shyly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
It’s ridiculous to feel sheepish in his presence. I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but he doesn’t, and the idea that he thinks I’m some faithless person rankles. Maybe Calvin doesn’t care what he thinks, but I do.
In a subtle attempt to show him things are not all rainbows and unicorns in spoiled, rich man’s girlfriend land like he probably thinks, I turn to Calvin right in front of him and ask, “May I have my phone back, please?”
Calvin glances up from petting my faithless kitty. “Why?”
“Because I haven’t had access to it all day while you were gone, and I would like to check my missed messages and work emails. You said I could do my work while I was locked up here all day, but I don’t have my laptop, so without my phone, there are things I was unable to do.”
He regards me for a moment, an inscrutable look on his face that makes my tummy sink. It clears a second later and he offers a bland smile. “Of course. Hollis will get it for you.”
___
By the time I’m finished working and catching up on all the messages I missed, Chef Ryan is nearly finished with our appetizer and there’s no time to shower. I head to the bathroom to wash up and change into the dinner dress Calvin left draped across the bed, but I can’t help noticing he forgot to give me panties.
I’m tempted to go into his walk-in closet and see if I can find a stash of clothing meant for me and grab them myself.
I’m one step inside the closet when I’m besieged by the scent of him, the overwhelmingly masculine energy of his clothing and accessories hung up and neatly organized. I had to come in this closet earlier to grab one of his dress shirts to paint in, but I zipped in and right back out. Being in here, I felt like he would catch me even though I knew he wasn’t home.
I don’t linger now, either.
I give up on the search for panties without giving it much effort. I grab the outfit he set out for me and look it over.
It’s a stylish metallic gray mini dress. I’m not sure how comfortable it will be, but when I run my hand along the interior fabric, it’s nice and soft. When I pull it on, it clings to my body and hits toward the top of my thigh.
I don’t mind wearing short, sexy dresses, but the lack of underwear presents a problem with a dress this length.
Calvin is seated at the smaller table when I come back out. He asks how my day was, but I don’t politely ask the same in return. I agonize over my silence, but despite my goal of infuriating him today not working even a little bit, I know the only way out of here is for him to get bored of me.
A dinner companion who won’t speak to him can’t be much fun. I would up the rudeness quotient and mess around on my phone while we eat, but he took it back after I finished catching up.
He tries a few more times to talk to me. He asks what the book I’m illustrating is about, how long I have to complete it, if I’ll dive right into the next project or if I take time off in between.
I don’t answer any of his questions.
My stony silence only ends when I finally meet his gaze and ask, “Do you know how Lance is doing?”
His face doesn’t register surprise—or anything else, for that matter. As if he’s never heard the name before, he asks levelly, “Who?”