Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
But, I have to admit, looking at the new couch they’re unwrapping, Lark chose well. It’s in a similar style to the one I owned, with big, puffy cushions and a simple fabric pattern—dark gray this time instead of light, which I have to admit does pair better with my shaggy carpet and steel coffee table.
Still. He could have at least consulted me first.
“You should see his apartment,” the delivery man continues. Before I can say I have, he adds, “Or the house he used to share with his wife, for that matter. Everyone who visits compliments Sheryl on her eye, but he’s the one who really put the place together. All for her sake, of course.”
His wife. Not his ex-wife. My stomach does an unpleasant backflip, all my earlier worries flooding straight back. “So I take it you’ve worked for Anderson Investments for a while?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual, light. As if the answer doesn’t interest me more than I could possibly explain.
“Been with them ever since they got their start,” the man declares proudly. “One of those power couples. You could tell from the get-go they were both driven, smart, wanted to make a name for themselves.”
“I see,” I reply, and I can’t quite hide the quiver in my tone. Thankfully, the man doesn’t seem to notice.
“Shame about their troubles of late.” He shakes his head. “Can’t help but think it’s because Lark’s a stubborn one. He didn’t see what was right in front of him all the while.”
My throat has gone tight. I clear it, forcing myself to smile and nod. To act normal. “Isn’t that always the way?” I say.
The man laughs. Across the room, his men have finished assembling my handsome new couch—which looks like it probably cost more than every other piece of furniture in my apartment put together. They’re carrying out the disassembled pieces of my old one now, when their overseer pauses, glancing at the rainbow, makeup-stained cushion.
“You got kids?” he asks, squinting at it, and then around my place, as if wondering where I’ve stashed a toddler.
I flash back to last night. To Lark pulling me onto his lap, the makeup spilling around us. “No,” I say. “But you could say someone immature did that.”
The man laughs again, and then offers me his hand. “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure if you’re an Anderson employee, we’ll meet again soon.”
I shake, a small frown creasing my forehead. “Oh, no,” I start to say. “I’m not a—”
But he’s already following his men out the door with a single backward salute at me. I wait until they’re in the hallway, and then shut the door behind them, locking it, and leaning backward against it. My head hits the wood with a faint thud.
I raise it, and let it fall back again with a harder smack this time.
What a mess.
And if I thought the day started out awkwardly, it’s only about to get more so. Less than an hour after the delivery men leave, I get two texts in a row. One from Lark.
I still cannot stop thinking about you. Tell me how you like the new addition to your apartment. Or better yet, how about I come over to test it out tonight?
And another from Sheryl.
So sorry I wasn’t able to come to the demo yesterday. What about a makeup (wink) meeting today? Lunch downtown at 1pm? My treat.
Followed by an address, a restaurant I’ve never been to, mostly because the only thing I’d be able to afford there is a single appetizer plate.
Shit.
* * *
It’s hard not to think about the fact, as I watch Sheryl unfold her napkin and set it primly in her lap across the table from me, that just last night I was in bed with her husband. Her ex-husband?
Either way. Guilt churns in my stomach. The dish she ordered me, some kind of rare steak from Japan I’ve never heard of, smells incredible. But it’s difficult for me to even hold my fork and knife long enough to cut it, let alone raise it to my lips.
Sitting between us on the table is my makeup palette. The same palette that destroyed my former couch, albeit now it’s been cleaned and refilled properly. Looking at it now, I picture it in Lark’s hands, as he turned it admiringly this way and that in the sunlight streaming through my windows. Then I think about the way it slid from his grasp onto the couch beside us, when he pulled me over to straddle him, his hard cock digging into my thigh.
“It’s beautiful,” Sheryl says, dragging my attention back to the present. “Do you mind?” She reaches for it but waits for me to nod before she takes a few swatches and tests them along the inside of her wrist, admiring the color in the dim restaurant lighting.