Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Do we have to go through this every day?” he mutters as I move back into the suite.
Poor Oliver. Not. He sounds so weary. Yay!
“Every day? Maybe just until I get used to the idea.” It hasn’t been at all hard to get used to unlimited spa visits, bougie afternoon teas, and room service. If you’re going to decompress, where better than in a luxurious boutique hotel?
The break has given me time to think, to process things, and while I might not have been aware of Mitch’s wealth, it makes sense now. It’s not that I think all wealthy people are dirtbags and all the poor are virtuous, but I do know the rich live in a different kind of reality. It’s one that often leads to a disregard for those around them. Not to mention an inflated sense of self. Sweeping statements, sure, but they ring true when I look at what has happened, and what is happening, to me.
So here I am, keeping up a campaign of subtle annoyance. Nothing too damaging, because fair is fair. Ariana, the immigration lawyer Oliver set me up with, is amazing. And he was right—there’s no way I could’ve afforded her fees, let alone accessed them.
The acronym iykyk was probably created for her.
Anyway, yesterday I received notification that my visa application had been received. I’ve had my fingerprints taken, and I’ve submitted a photograph for my biometric card, the modern-day version of a visa stamp to a passport.
All systems are go: two weeks down. Ten more to go.
“Well, get used to it quickly,” Oliver bites, “or that fluffy-arsed monster is going back to the kennel.”
“Mr. Bojangles?” At his name, the labradoodle lying in the middle of the couch pauses in the act of cleaning his toe jam and looks up. “He’s no monster.”
“He’s a testicular terrorist in a fluffy suit.” Oliver’s clipped consonants shouldn’t dance along my spine like fingertips, but they do.
“Mr. Bo, it’s good you can’t hear what Olly is saying.” The dog tilts his head like he understands everything. And doesn’t give one single shit.
“To think I considered myself a dog person until he moved in.”
“Well, see, Bo is more person than dog. Except, people don’t punish you by peeing in your shoes for not sharing your hot dog.”
“He’d better not even think about it,” he mutters darkly.
Honestly, Bo looks like he’s plotting much worse, and I’m here for it.
“Oh, Mr. Bo.” I scratch his fluffy ear as I baby talk to him. “What did you do? Stick your nose in the mean ole man’s crotch again?” Jealous? Moi? Maybe a little bit. I don’t think I have a manipulation kink. I just have a thing for bossy-assed men like him.
“I am not old or mean, and he did not frighten me.”
I make a doubtful noise. “You’re kinda old, and there’s no disputing you have a mean streak. I mean, hello!”
“A matter of opinion, again. Unlike the mutt’s unbridled interest in my crotch.”
It is quite special, as I recall.
“But now that I come to think of it, I was feeling quite unkind this morning, waking to find I wasn’t alone. Again.” My shoulders move with silent laughter. I count that as the third time this week that he’s woken to Bo’s doggy breath. “Somehow this time the light was on.”
“Well, I didn’t do it.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes, Oliver, I’m sure I didn’t come into your room while it was still dark and turn on the light.” If I had crept into his room, it wouldn’t be the light I’d be interested in turning on. It’s good that I’m a rule follower, especially my own. “I mean, why would I? Such fun was had that one time I oh-so-wickedly turned on a light!”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.”
“I warned you Bo isn’t the kind of dog who does well in confined spaces.”
“That’s on you,” he gripes. “You insisted on making him part of this.”
I bite my knuckle gleefully. I love that I’m getting under his skin. I did make Bo part of the deal, but what isn’t my fault is how he’s too smart for his own good. Or how he’s a failed therapy dog. It’s also not my fault he was trained for his therapy role by inmates of an open prison, even if his delinquency can be traced back to there.
Nope, it’s totally not my fault a thief taught Bo all he knows.
“You can’t have expected me to just sit here all day long by myself.” Besides, he was driving Nora crazy. It was like a battle of wills at the sanctuary. “Bo is good company for me.” My gaze drops to the mutt. He’s a good listener. I especially like how he offers no opinions.
“A hotel is not a suitable environment for a dog.”
“Some hotels make exceptions. Especially hotels that you own.”