Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
“Is it very visible?” She fusses over a perfectly secured bracelet, clearing her throat.
“No,” I lie, tugging the zipper up. I halt. Something comes over me. The need to brush my lips against her scar. Comfort her. I resist the instinct. Instead, I say, “There you go, Venus.”
“Venus?”
“The hottest planet on the solar system.” I wink, channeling my inner Christian Miller, my friend who somehow managed to perfect the art of enjoying his relationship, as opposed to making it a screwed-up grown-up game like I did.
I can almost hear Grace scrunching her nose in disdain. “Thank Gawd you’re a closeted geek. Could you imagine if other people found out about your astronomy quirk?” She huffs, pushing farther away from me. “Now all I need is a pair of earrings. What do you think, the rose gold diamond studs or the aquamarines?”
The first pair, I bought her for her twenty-eighth birthday, deliberately one-upping her then-boyfriend’s gift. She dumped him the same night, horrified with the prospect of ending up with a middle-class Realtor who could only afford to buy her last season’s Louboutins. She’d later on waited in my bed wearing nothing but said earrings. The latter pair was a present from me after I ended a three-month affair with Lucinda—yes, her childhood nemesis—when Grace took too long to get back to me after one of our many breakups.
Poor, poor Lucinda. She was in for an unpleasant surprise when she got back from her tour in Paris as a prima ballerina to find Grace scorching up my bed.
My gifts are always laced with intention, purpose, and venom. They’re a dirty, violent kiss. A mixture of passion and pain.
“Aquamarines,” I drawl.
She leans down, placing a cool kiss on my lips. I want her to move along so I can see if the couple two floors down is now fucking in plain sight. Their brand of kink is better than ours. I glance at their balcony. Grace’s gaze follows mine.
Her mouth stretches in a malicious smile. “I see you’ve met my supervisor. Kind of, anyway.”
“You know this tool bag?” I take a sip of my wine.
“Paul Ashcroft? He’s Silver Arrow Capital’s new COO. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him.”
The company where Grace works as an analyst.
Paul and his companion have their backs to us. They seem to be talking now and keeping their hands to themselves.
“I’m sure you haven’t. Not that he seems like a memorable character.” I jerk my chin to the woman in red. “He’s getting pretty frisky with the help.”
Grace lets out a delighted laugh. Nothing brings her more joy than watching another woman being torn apart. “She’s a simple creature, isn’t she? Believe it or not, he put a ring on it. A pricey one too.”
I tsk. “He’s a hedge fund manager. Risky bets are where he thrives.”
“She’s a Juilliard graduate from the Deep South. I’m giving it six months,” Grace continues, squinting to get a better look at them.
“Generous of you.” I chuckle.
I know men like Paul. Manhattan sharks who glorify soft-spoken southern belles, only to find out that opposites may attract, but they don’t make a decent match. It always ends in divorce, a mutual smear campaign, and—if the woman works quickly enough—a fat child support check every month.
“You know me. Kindness is my middle name. I’ll go put my earrings on. What, no tie for you?” Grace pouts, looking down at me. I’m wearing a black cashmere sweater and plaid slacks.
“The last thing I want is to make a good impression.” I go back to my book.
“You’re a rebel without a cause.”
“On the contrary.” I flip a page. “I have a cause—I want everyone to leave me the fuck alone. So far, it’s been going great.”
She shakes her head. “You’re so lucky to have me.”
She disappears into our room, taking her giant attitude and matching ego with her.
I throw one last look at the couple. Paul isn’t on the balcony anymore.
But his wife is, and she is staring right back at me.
Intently. With an accusing ferocity. Like she expects me to do something.
Has she noticed me staring?
Confused, I look behind me to make sure it is me she is looking at. No one else is in sight. Her eyes, big and blue and unrelenting, bore harder into mine.
Is this a hostage situation? Unlikely. She looked mighty happy to make out with her husband just a few minutes ago. Is she trying to shame me for watching them? Good luck with that. My conscience was last seen at age ten, leaving a hospital room with a feral growl, punching holes in the walls on its departure.
I meet her gaze head-on, unsure what’s happening, but always happy to take part in a hostile confrontation. I arch an eyebrow.
She blinks first. I chuckle softly, shaking my head, about to get back to my book. She wipes her cheek quickly. Wait a minute . . . she is crying.