Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 53697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Now Gabriel is a part of those memories, and I can’t just erase him. Can I just let him go tomorrow and never see him again? Would I regret it forever, or is it the right thing to do because this was never supposed to get this far, and no strings attached means no strings attached, not panic after and throw out a few desperate ropes to try and hold on to him?
I sigh while I wait for my tea to cool down. I always boil the kettle way too long, and the water is usually blistering. I can tell it’s going to be a good five minutes before I can even taste the minty goodness. There’s nothing quite like mint tea to soothe you. Warm milk, which I always thought was gross, wouldn’t even come close.
Since I have nothing to do but wait, and even though I came down here to think, I pull out my phone for a momentary distraction.
I stare blankly at the screen for a minute before I find myself bringing up the web browser and typing in Gabriel’s name. His full name. Gabriel Wickert. He said he was thirty-two, so I put in the year he was born as well. What? Lots of people look people up online, okay? It’s natural. I think even prospective employers often do a web search and social media check before they hire someone. I hesitate for a second before I hit enter.
I guess I just want to know a little bit about Gabriel. About whether this could work. Him. Me. Together. Us? You can learn a lot about a person based on their social media. Maybe he’s secretly an asshole, and I’ll save myself a ton of trouble by just letting him go tomorrow. Or maybe he’s a super nice guy who volunteers and saves kittens from trees in his spare time. Or maybe…
Holy. Fuck. Nuts.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Or maybe…or maybe, Gabriel Wickert, age thirty-two, is actually a billionaire.
I click on the first article, the one where the headline proclaims something about up and coming software genius, Gabriel Wickert, selling for two billion dollars. My eyes quickly scan down the page, and words leap out at me. Mostly technical stuff I don’t understand. Something about programming. Software. Apps. I know what those are. It’s the figure that keeps getting me. Two. Billion. Dollars.
I’d like to say this is a different Gabriel, and there’s just the odd chance that someone out there has a strange name, spelled quite differently, as this Gabriel, but nope. There’s a picture of him included with the article. It’s from a few years ago, so he looks just a shade younger, but it is definitely him.
Holy. Shit. The guy passed out in my bed right now, the guy I just had really stellar, blow your mind sex with, is actually a billionaire.
Which brings up a whole set of questions I don’t have answers for. Is that why he wants no strings attached? Because most people only want to use him for his money? Why would he agree to come with me this weekend? Because he could be anonymous here? Because he thought I’d be a good sport? Because he’s seriously creepy, and I was just his latest target? Because he gets kicks out of pretending to be someone he’s not?
I have no idea.
But it sure as fuck wasn’t for the money.
My whole body breaks out into a clammy, nasty sweat. I can practically feel the beads of it rolling down my temples. When I pick up my phone to hit Dean’s contact to panic call him, it nearly slips out of my hand. I have visions of it landing in my scalding tea, which would be the end of me, my phone, and my tea.
Somehow, I manage to hang onto it. I can’t imagine that Dean is a) sober, and b) will actually hear his phone, but magically, he picks up.
“Pearl?” he slurs into the phone. There’s so much noise in the background that I doubt he can hear me.
“I need you to come over here. Now. It’s an emergency.”
“Where’s here?” I guess Dean can hear me after all.
“My parents’ place,” I hiss. “Please. Now. There’s something I need to tell you. I’ll wait for you outside on the front step.”
“I can’t drive.”
“I know! Walk your ass over here! It’s a fifteen-minute walk, ten if you hurry!”
“But I’m kind of drunk.”
“Okay, okay. Damn it. I’ll be right there, and I’ll drive you here, so you don’t magically lose your way in the town you spent just about your whole life growing up in. I’ll be there in five. Wait outside for me. I don’t want anyone else to see me.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you about it when I get there. Just…can you just please go wait out front?”