Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
"I need help if my mistress makes coffee this shitty."
"Sounds like something to discuss with your therapist."
He laughs.
It used to be a rare sound for him. Since he reconnected with his ex-girlfriend—
It was a strange turn of events. Marriage by blackmail. A new one, even for me. Not Shepard, blackmailing his bride. A third party, blackmailing Shepard. Win her heart or else.
The bastard called it a game. I guess it is a game. There are rules, victory conditions, stakes.
But where the hell is the fun?
"Interested in other people's problems," he says. "You should discuss that."
"You have so many. I can't help myself."
His laugh is soft. It covers the drip-drip of the machine. "Here for tea or torture?"
"I have to choose?"
"Which is it today? Something about how Americans don't understand tea?"
"Well, you certainly understand torture."
He chuckles.
"Full of yourself too. As if the US is the only country in the Americas."
"Are you going to call me a Yank?" he asks.
"That's the nicest thing I'd call you."
He half-smiles. "And you can't talk about ego."
"Ego? What ego?"
He picks up the electric kettle. Fills it with water.
I raise a brow. "You're fixing tea?"
"I've learned from the best." He smiles at the allusion to his wife. Stares at the kettle like it's his beloved. Dreamy eyed and full of affection. Then he shakes it off. Sets the kettle to boil. "Why are you here so early?"
I shrug as if I don't understand the question. I'm always early.
Only I know what he's asking.
He's asking why I'm wearing my frustration all over my face.
"Weren't you out last night? I could swear Jasmine said something about your Instagram." He shudders how awful, following you on social media. "Where do you get the energy?"
"If you need a lesson in stamina—"
"Evasive."
I shrug like I don't care. Motion to the kettle.
Shep nods sure, grabs a mug, loose leaf tea, a plastic strainer.
"I have a business partner who treats me right and the best tea money can buy. How can I stay away from the office?"
He makes that mm-hmm noise that means we both know you're full of shit. "So it has nothing to do with your… what do you call her?"
"Temptation."
"I still don't understand the story there."
"Who said I wanted you to?"
He chuckles you're not fooling anyone. "Apparently, you and my wife were discussing it. She's smitten."
"I'm sorry, Shep. But you had to know she'd find a better man one day."
"With your love story." He scoops leaves into the strainer. "You must have told her something I don't know. I can't imagine she'd care much about you fucking some naïve co-ed."
This time, I laugh. "She's not naïve."
"No, she's a wise teenager?" He rolls his eyes. "Is she even legal?"
"She's eighteen." I thought she was older when I found her site. A grad student. Or an artist in her thirties.
She doesn't usually discuss high school troubles. And she writes like a woman who's lived an entire life.
I guess she has. In a mere eighteen years.
The first time she dropped her age, I couldn't believe it. That someone so articulate was barely out of high school.
That someone so mature, driven, focused was only eighteen.
Or that I was obsessed with someone half my age.
I don't know any practical details. No name. No number. No career plans.
I don't know her eye color or her height or her body-type.
But I know Eve. Her hopes and dreams. Her obsession with The Handmaid's Tale, feminist literature, and what she calls "lesser dystopia."
I know she loves The Hunger Games because she'd volunteer as a tribute like that if her sister's name was called at the reaping.
I know she loves thrashing guitar music. Even though it's what her dad played. Even though it's full of immature suburban boys who don't know real problems.
I know she can't get into hip-hop, even though all her friends love Drake.
I know she loves chocolate, but not chocolate ice cream.
I know she dyes her hair teal, wears dramatic makeup, adores the color black. "Even though it's not technically a color."
I know she doesn't feel like she can talk to any of her peers, because they aren't holding up the entire fucking world the way she is.
And I know she'd do anything for her sister.
Including accepting this arsehole's offer.
Or finding a higher bidder.
"So…" He pours steaming water into the plastic strainer. "What is it about her? Why did you make my wife swoon?"
"You realize I know Jasmine well."
"I do."
"You don't have to say my wife every time you mention her."
His gaze flits to the silver band on his left hand. "What is the story with your temptation?"
"There's no story. I stumbled on her website a few months ago." More like eight, but who's counting? "I follow her writing. That's all."
"And, what, she insulted your favorite TV show?" He takes a tiny sip of his espresso. Lets out a sigh. Half this hits the spot. Half it could be so much better. "You don't look happy in love."