Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
As we drive through Rosemary, I can’t help but stare out the window. So much of the city has changed while I was away, yet it still feels the same. When I ran after my mom’s death, I always knew I’d have to come back eventually, but I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming sense of nostalgia I feel as we pass the Kingston building. I make a mental note to visit Mom’s grave since I haven’t been by since we laid her to rest. I’ve thought about going a million times, but that would mean going home, and it just hurt too much.
When the driver pulls up to the elaborate wrought iron fence and we wait for the gate to open, I take a moment to check out my surroundings—the place I’ll be calling home for at least the next several months. The long driveway leads up to a two-story home with a three-car garage. For the area it’s in, it’s on the modest side, but it’s still beautiful in its own right.
The driver pulls around, stopping in front of the large mahogany double doors, and I take a moment to reapply my blood-red lipstick.
I’m not a huge makeup person, but Mom always said, “Red lipstick is the weapon for savage women.”
I’m not sure if she made up the quote or read it somewhere, but she always wore red lipstick, and in turn, so do I.
The driver rounds the car as I put my lipstick away and mentally psych myself up.
When he opens the door, taking my hand to help me out, I murmur, “Thank you,” just as the front door opens and a gentleman, dressed to the nines in a power suit, steps out.
His dark brown hair is messy in that way that only men can get away with, and the scruff on his face is neatly trimmed. I saw a picture of him from the matchmaking service we used, but it didn’t do him justice. It looked like a mug shot, whereas in person, he looks like a goddamn GQ model.
Ian takes a step forward, his hands resting casually in his pockets, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As his gaze ascends my body, taking in every inch of me, I stand still, letting him check out what he’s paid for, knowing that I’m a beautiful woman. I eat healthy, work out regularly, and have a naturally curvy body with ample cleavage that almost looks paid for, but isn’t.
When he’s done checking me out, his emerald eyes meet mine, and I suck in a sharp breath, overcome with a bout of lust I wasn’t expecting to overtake my body.
Until this moment, I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. I figured I would play housewife in the morning and evenings, and while he was at work, I’d do my own thing. But what I didn’t think about is the fact that I’m going to be living with a wealthy, powerful, gorgeous older man who expects me to meet his needs—and that includes sex.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no virgin. I have my own needs, and I’m no stranger to having them met. But usually, once the orgasms have subsided and we’re both left sated, we go our separate ways. Except now, there’s nowhere to go.
“Sir,” the driver says, his voice cutting through the sexual fog. “Her bags.”
“Thank you. That will be all.” Ian nods once, and the driver scurries back into the car and takes off.
Leaving my bags for Ian to take, I square my shoulders, jut out my breasts, and saunter up to him, ready to play my part. I stop directly in front of him and lean in, placing my hands on his biceps and kissing his cheek. I let my lips linger just a tad too long, knowing I need to seduce this man if I’m going to convince him to play the part of my doting husband in front of my dad—I’ll deal with him finding out I’m a businesswoman and not an actual trophy wife later. But it’s a double-edged sword because during that time, I inhale his masculine scent. It’s woodsy with a hint of spice that flows through my veins and straight to my lady parts, like a direct hit of dopamine.
Holy shit! How the hell can a man smell so sexy?
I stumble back, needing to clear my head, and Ian raises a brow. He’s shrewd—noted.
“Stacey,” he says smoothly, his voice deep and masculine as he speaks the nickname I gave on my résumé, not wanting to use my real name, “welcome home.”
I swallow nervously at his choice of words. It’s doubtful he meant anything by it since he’s made it clear this is temporary, but the word triggers something deep inside of me. The last time I had a home was when my mom was alive. Since the moment she took her final breath, I’ve felt like I no longer have a home.