Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“So profound.” She batted her lashes. “The Nobel Peace Prize is on the way. Make sure your suit is ironed.”
It infuriated me to no end that this was the woman I’d entrusted my truth to.
I knew she’d keep my secrets safe. That offered me absolutely zero comfort, seeing as I wanted to pinpoint, dissect, and devour each flaw of hers.
Anything to make her less appealing to me.
She had plenty of faults, too.
I remembered how easily I’d spotted them when she’d first moved in. But everything I’d detested about her—her rolling, loud laughter, her messiness, her uncanny ability to befriend anything and anyone, potted plants included—no longer irked me.
True, she wasn’t academically accomplished, but she’d read half the local library in under four months and whipped quips at a frightening pace.
She flaunted a knack for numbers, too, crushing Vernon in chess and Zeus on the Loose.
Her food obsession bordered on unhealthy, but her knowledge in all things culinary fascinated me.
Mostly, it disappointed me that my wife wasn’t truly lazy. She was just waiting to become a mother so she could channel all her energy into her spawns.
Presently, though, I discovered a good reason to be unhappy with her as we strode from the Maybach to my newly acquired restaurant. She was panting like she’d just finished a marathon.
“Must you breathe so loudly? Aliens can hear you from neighboring planets.”
“You believe in them, too?” She perked up before side-eyeing me, noting my flat expression. “Wait, you’re annoyed with my breathing now?”
I opened the door for her. “You’re young and, for an unfathomable reason unrelated to your lifestyle, seem to be in excellent shape. Why are you breathing so hard?”
“I’m breathing regularly, Rom. Maybe you’re just super attuned to me, so you can hear me even when I’m quiet.”
Rom.
My nickname spoken from her rosebud lips sounded like the most beautiful word in the English language. When Oliver and Zach called me that, I wanted to punch them.
“Keep dreaming, Shortbread.” I settled a hand on her back, leading her to our table. “And while you do that, don’t forget to be courteous, friendly, and well-mannered. I need Reynolds’s business.”
“Ugh. I planned on eating directly from their plates, but now that you asked…”
Tom and Casey already awaited us at the table. They weren’t alone. They brought—I shit you not—their toddler.
Thus, a flurry of cooing and kissing ensued.
Casey immediately gushed about Dallas’s hair, dress, eyes, and general existence.
Meanwhile, my wife physically snatched the toddler and cradled it to her chest. “Who do we have here?”
“Freida. Her nanny bailed on us last minute.” Casey sighed. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind?” From the extent of Dallas’s outrage, you’d think Casey just suggested a couples swap. “Children are my passion, and this one is just extra delicious, aren’t you, sweetie?”
Despite that last sentence potentially landing her in the FBI’s watchlist, a twinge of pride pricked my chest.
I studied Dallas, seeing her from a stranger’s eyes. Her beauty remained unrivaled. Yet, more than her looks, I admired her endurance, sweetness, brash honesty, and devotion to children.
I wasn’t so arrogant as to think she was content with what we shared. She wanted more. Feelings. Romance. Dates. Heirs.
She deserved all those things, too. But the only way I could grant them was to let her go, and I refused to do that.
The mindless chatter began as soon as we settled into our seats. Little Freida—curly haired with a yellow plaid dress—sat in Dallas’s lap and ate squished food from between her fingers.
I asked after Tom’s parents, golf tournament, and drone-flying hobby, all of which I cared about a little less than Kanye West’s opinion about marginalized minorities.
Through bits and pieces, I overheard Dallas and Casey discuss the grave matter of surgical brow lifts.
Idiotically, and for no reason other than my inability to let the matter be, I tuned out Tom Reynolds, whom I’d courted for weeks, listening to Shortbread’s conversation.
Her steady breaths lingered in my ears, accompanied by her boisterous laughter, the crunch of her complimentary bread, and the little gulps her throat produced as she sipped a pink martini.
The way she blew raspberries into Freida’s neck and stroked the child’s shoulder every time she fussed.
Was she right? Was I simply hyperaware of her?
The very thought made me shudder.
It took me a while to slide in to business mode, but once I did, I forgot Dallas’s existence. She seemed to amuse the Reynolds females.
I made a mental note to reward her cooperation in the form of fucking her.
I’d be smart about it. Now that I knew her period cycle, I’d fuck her when there was little chance of getting her pregnant.
“I’m going to be honest. Things aren’t looking well for Licht Holdings.” Tom blew out air, shaking his head once we finally cut to the chase. “I doubt they’ll be able to honor our contract even if we were willing to overlook the public outcry to boycott them. Which, I have to say, the Secretary of Defense isn’t eager to do. Cameron Lyons is Georgian, if you might recall.”