Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Still, it beats living on ramen and cups of watery coffee to fill my stomach. It sounds like a poor person cliché but, if you ask me, the unfortunate thing about clichés is that they are all to often true.
When I am with Remy, which has been a lot these past three weeks, but not every night—because, hello, no one likes needy—I eat well. Like amazingly well. It blows my mind that he has the kind of influence that has brought some of the best chefs in Europe into his kitchen. Last night, for instance, some Michelin-starred dude flown in from Sicily served a melt-in-the-mouth arancini that was so delicious, I’m pretty sure I could live on just that for the rest of my days. It was followed by a pasta dish that I was initially certain I could live without ever seeing again because it looked disturbingly like a bowl of black worms. It turned out to be squid ink pasta and equally as tasty.
We drank cocktails poolside watching as the sun turned molten, dusk then turning to dark. The weather was so beautiful, we decided to eat outside. At the end of the meal, the chef was presented at the table, still dressed in his whites, and Lord knows why, but I was surprised as Remy began to thank him in perfect sounding Italian.
Is there anything this man is bad at? Except maybe riding motorcycles.
But I teased him anyway.
‘I think your Italian mustn’t be as good as it sounds,’ I’d said, hiding my smile behind my wine glass.
‘What makes you think that?’ His purring expression should’ve warned me I was heading into a trap.
‘Oh, just the way the man turned pink in the middle of your conversation. You must’ve mispronounced something, making it sound dirty.’
He’d tipped his head back and smiled up into the star-filled sky and laughed. A slight breeze in the air ruffled his hair, and I’d curled my hands into fists against the urge to reach across the table and run my fingers through it.
‘No, ma Rose. He turned pink because I told him you made such enthusiastic sounds as you’d eaten your entrée that I thought I was going to have to cut the meal short and take you to bed.’
‘You did not!’ I’d squealed, but he’d just inclined his head and said my rapture belonged to him now.
When we’re not being fed by the best in the business, Remy’s housekeeper isn’t averse to rustling up a delicious dish. She—and I’m assuming she is a she, which isn’t very modern of me—cooks a mean lasagne and her salads are to die for. A couple of evenings we’ve even cooked together, though nothing fancy because neither of us is particularly housetrained. What we haven’t done yet is eat out, like in a restaurant or café. In fact, we haven’t been anywhere together in public, and the truth is, I’m not ready to be seen with him. When I’d explained my fears to Remy, how I worried it was too soon, that I’d be gossiped about and not taken seriously at work because people would probably assume he’d brought me out to Monaco to bone, he said he understood. In fact, he was very sweet about it.
And to think I was worried there’d be some sort of power imbalance ebbing involved with a rich man. Maybe Amber was right; maybe power issues are the difference between dating a rich guy and a rich asshole. Remy is no ass. In fact, he’s probably one of the best men I’ve ever met. When we’re together, everything is so normal—we talk about everything, but I never wanted to fall in love with him. Hell, I never wanted to fall in love with anyone. Love leaves you vulnerable. Leaves you wanting. It makes junkies out of mothers and relegates children to the sense of never being quite enough. Yet, each time we get together, he steals a little more of my heart.
But I’m happy to exist in our little bubble for now because I know once we step out in public, all that will come to an end. Aside from how I’ll be viewed at work, there are other concerns. Will I be accepted into his world? Would he make a place for me there? Also, it seems the richer you are in Monaco, the more appealing you are as society pages fodder, which is more than a little freaky. Think TMZ but a little classier, because paparazzi aren’t allowed to follow the rich and fabulous in Monaco, by order of the Crown Prince.
Remy doesn’t get to keep me all to himself every night. He has his social obligations, and I have mine. Like tonight—dinner with my new work friends!
‘What’s up, bitches!’ Fee arrives at the table wearing a cute pink dress that shows off her toned arms and her golden tan. Charles rises to greet her, and double air-kisses are bestowed to each of us, as is the custom out here.