Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“I’m going to fuck you,” he says quietly but firmly. “Before the day is over.”
My stomach hardens, and I lift my head. “Only if Reese—”
He grips my hair, holding my cheek against his shoulder and his mouth at my ear. “You think putting Reese in our bed will keep things casual and safe?” His fingers flex, pulling at the roots of my hair, his voice grinding with anger. “We missed our opportunity for casual sex the night we met. After the trust you’ve given me, the intensity burning through every touch we share, and all the emotions we haven’t even vocalized yet, nothing will ever be casual between us. So get that idea out of your stubborn head. Whether you like it or not, I’m one-hundred-percent invested in us.”
“Why?” I break his hold to meet his eyes. “You’ve never committed to a woman. Why is this any different?”
“I don’t know.” His eyebrows pull together, and his gaze traces my face. “Maybe because I went into this mentally prepared to commit to you for a year.”
My chest pinches. He’s invested in the Infidelity agreement. Of course, that’s all this is.
“I’ve never slept beside a woman,” he says. “I’ve never enjoyed spending time with a woman I’m not fucking. I’ve never had to chase a woman so hard and for so goddamn long.” He flashes a huge grin, as if chasing me excites him. “And I’ve never felt this…this…” He shoves a hand through his hair and looks away. “I feel anxious and sick when I’m not near you.”
That’ll wear off. Probably as soon as he fucks me. Then he’ll hurt me. Not physically. Maybe not even with words. But my heart’s on the table, right there for the taking. The more time I spend with him, the less I’m able to protect it. Someday, he’ll break it, and this time, I’m not sure I’ll heal.
CHAPTER 17
LAYNEE
The photographers and production crew bustle around the massive room, adjusting lighting and furniture. I lean against the wall on the far side, wearing a relaxed smile. It’s the smile I use in public to make me appear demure and content, when all I really want to do is go home.
I used to love L.A., the diversity of ethnicity and wealth, the microclimate of urban heat, and the way the sun illuminates the motley of neighborhoods in a unified glow. It’s the city of dreamers. But when I left two years ago, I was no longer chasing the dream. I was running from a nightmare.
Shutting the door on those thoughts, I look around the room. Where the hell is Decker?
When we arrived at the studio, he stayed with my security detail while the stylists whisked me into the dressing room. That was two hours ago. I haven’t seen him since.
Shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I try to ease the cramps in my feet caused by the strappy five-inch stilettos. My face itches beneath the heavy makeup and frozen smile, and my scars tingle under the Victoria Beckham form-fitting dress.
It’s been months since I put myself in the spotlight. While I loathe the scrutiny, I know this is good for me. This is the life I chose.
The three celebrity bachelorettes I’m posing with today gather a few feet away, droning on about shopping, spa treatments, and the hottest nightclubs in L.A. They sample the fruit selections on the refreshments table, taking delicate bites and tossing uneaten portions in the trash.
Dressed buoyantly and seductively in designer fabrics, they’re beautiful, successful, and at least fifteen years younger than me. If any one of them stepped outside, men would trip over themselves to get a closer look. If they walked out together, they would cause a riot.
“…is intravenous vitamin therapy.” Alley Fahy, best known for her roles in romantic comedies, points her famous button nose in my direction. “Don’t you agree, Laynee?”
“I wasn’t following the conversation.” I smooth my damp palms down the shiny material of my dress.
The wardrobe stylist said the color of the dress is cerulean blue, chosen to match my eyes. I told her the hem’s too short for a forty-year-old woman. It covers my scars but fits like a tennis skirt. She told me not to bend over and shooed me away.
“Apple stem cell facials are all the rage.” Alley tilts her auburn head. “Better results than vitamin therapy, right?”
I shrug. I’ve tried it all. “I swear by healthy eating habits and daily moisturizer.” Especially when the moisturizer is applied with strong masculine fingers.
“But at your age, you have to do so much more.” Her gaze flicks to my chest. “Ever considered augmentation?”
Resisting the urge to hug my torso, I hold my arms at my sides and widen my smile. “No. Never.”
The youngest of the group, Collette Conway, leans toward Alley and mumbles, “She might’ve hung on to Blake Harridan a little longer if she had some of that lifted and tucked.”