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)
“Okay.” She shut the box and shoved it back in my arms, replacing it with another hardcover. This time: Blindfolded by my Professor. “I’ll consider attending.”
“Will you be considering it at the pace you typically process life? The event begins in an hour.”
“What did you say the charity was again?”
“I didn’t.”
“Romeo.”
In the interest of time, I caved.
“Friedreich’s Army.”
Shortbread’s lips parted.
I had no doubt she’d googled the charity after the wedding. That she knew about Friedreich’s ataxia. That she’d formed the connection between the disorder and Senior.
As expected, it clicked immediately, and she blurted out, “Fine. I’ll go.”
I chose not to inform her I wasn’t attending due to my sick father but rather the swarm of vote-holding board members that trailed him everywhere he went.
Let her think that—somewhere deep, deep, deep down—I cared about my sperm donor, so long as I did not show up to a public event without my wife.
She sailed past a row of curated sex-addiction self-help books, straight to the sign with five chili pepper emojis beneath a bolded Daddy-Dom-Little-Girl hashtag.
“I just need some reading material for when it gets boring.” She selected a hardcover that featured two shirtless blue men with horns and tails kneeling before a half-naked woman.
“Absolutely not.” I yanked the book from her hands, raising it beyond her grasp.
“Don’t be such a buzzkill. I’ll cover it with a dust jacket. We can pick one from the classics section.”
“We don’t have time for this.”
She moved onto a row of slip-cased books and slid one from its coffin, fondling the hardcover six different ways. I watched as she held it to her nose and sniffed.
Then she opened the pages and checked each and every one. Her fingers traced the case laminate, feeling for grooves. As if she wasn’t going to cover it with the dust jacket for Crime and Punishment later.
And finally, she elevated the book to eye level, angling it at every degree to check for—I didn’t know what. Dust? Dents? Her sanity? All of the above?
“Hurry up.” I lifted my watch, noting the long arm’s dangerous proximity to twelve. “I’ll purchase the bookstore. You can return after the charity gala and choose whatever you like. The entire store, if you must.”
“You’re rich. We get it.” She yawned. “The only billionaires I like are fictional.”
“Yet, the only people who can afford your existence are billionaires. And even then, just barely.” I made eye contact with the frizzy-haired manager, directing him toward us with a glare. “Is your boss here?”
“Yeah.” His hair bobbed with his nod. “Think so.”
“Find him, then call him out.”
He spoke into his employee radio, shifting from foot to foot. “He’s in the stockroom. He’ll be out in a sec, sir.”
I retrieved my Centurion card from my wallet when my stubborn wife breezed past me toward the exit. Not for the first time, I found myself following her.
“You’re not purchasing anything?”
She deposited herself in my passenger seat, a frown touching her full lips. “Now that you intend to purchase this place, I can no longer shop here. I don’t want to give you any business.”
Unbelievable.
“The thing about ice is…it’s bound to melt.”
Zach swirled the neat Scotch in his tumbler, studying an Elmer Nelson Bischoff painting in his subterranean garage, which a team of architects had converted into a fifteen-thousand-square-foot gallery.
Zach was sensible when it came to his cars, his clothes, his women, and his career—but he was downright rabid when it came to his art.
Since he’d loaned a quarter of his private collection to Sotheby’s two months ago, he’d taken the opportunity to fill the space with new findings.
The ice in question was my heart.
A specific reference to my showdown with Madison thirteen days ago at Dallas’s makeshift party.
I was happy to report that, aside from the charity gala she’d spent fleecing a famous Japanese master of his top-secret recipes, I’d passed my rare time at home completely ignoring her, holed up in my office, working nonstop to prove to Senior that I was indeed worthy of the CEO position.
“My heart is not surrounded by ice. It is surrounded by not giving a care in the world about anyone.” My voice reverberated over the walls with an echo.
I waltzed through the immense space, stopping before a Gerhard Richter abstract painting.
“True.” Oliver sloped against an empty sliver of wall, tossing back a shot of something strong. “When I think about someone who doesn’t give a fuck, I think about an idiot who almost murdered his archenemy in front of dozens of people in his own fucking home, which is more wired than the goddamn Pentagon. All because the latter mingled with his wife.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Ollie here.” Zach raked a hand through his ink-black hair. “She’s turning you inside out.”
“She’s a mess in need of tidying up and straightening out,” I countered, moving along to the next piece of hung art.