Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
“It is a shame that Millie can’t be here. What’s wrong with her anyway?” Mom asks, changing the subject as she waits with me until the mystery man appears to pay for his winnings, the only reason why my nerves aren’t as strung out as they could be.
“Some kind of flu. She has a fever, aches and pains, the works.” I reach for a glass of champagne as a waiter makes his rounds, thankful for the liquid courage I’m about to toss back like I’m shot-gunning a beer at a frat party.
“Poor thing. Maybe next time, she’ll be able to do this.” The auctioneer calls for the next item up for auction. I had a feeling auctioning date nights would be a hit, and that theory was definitely proven right. I had a feeling it would in our circles, one I’m thankful I’m not completely entrenched in, the gold diggers, the women who attempt to trap a man with a pregnancy, and yes, there are some men who will have no problem using their charm, you know, like the movie where the man swindles women out of money, somehow managing to get away with it. I’m talking zero charges and the money is long gone and they aren’t getting it back.
“We’ll see,” I murmur under my breath. It took a lot of convincing as it is; doing it over again will be impossible. I turn around, coming face to face with the man who is a full head and shoulders taller than me, has dark black hair and eyes that are just as dark, if not darker, a clean-shaven face, broad shoulders, tapered waist, and the fit of his suit pants molds to what I’m seeing are thick muscular legs. The suit in question looks like it was made especially for his body, not that I should doubt that it wasn’t or the fact that it likely costs more than my Alexandra Vauthier dress, a dress I would never pay for out of my own pocket. Frugal is my middle name. It was a gift from my parents, my mother especially. She knows I’d attempt to pull out last year’s dress to re-wear it, a major faux pas in these circles. Sadly, in the social circles we run with, not only would our family receive backlash, but social media would kick up a storm. It’s bad enough that a two-page article was written about me going my own way instead of working side by side with my father. I love him, and if it were a do-or-die situation, I probably would. The loving parents I have adore me as I do them, especially my father, who is the techy person of the family. Any kind of computer and their inner workings, along with cell phones and their applications, he’s all over it. As for Mom and myself, we barely use ours to its fullest capabilities, an annoyance in my dad’s eyes. He doesn’t understand that we’d much rather use a paper planner instead of the calendar in our phones. We are who we are. My mother had a job working beside my father through my school years, having the flexibility to raise me instead of someone else, while Dad worked all hours of the day.
Now she works tirelessly at the charity she founded from the ground up after losing my baby sister to leukemia. It was devastating to our whole family, and this was the outlet Mom needed. We all rallied around her, too. It created an even closer bond between us, a bond so strong that even once I was off doing my own thing, being a typical teenager, pushing her away without the realization that I was doing it, she never admonished or tried to change what I was thinking or doing unless it was harmful to my mental, emotional, or physical wellbeing. For the most part, it was Millie and me riding around in one of our cars, listening to music, shopping, and eating when we weren’t in school. Mom’s charity, though, it’s near and dear, one that helps so many in need, one that gives me joy as it helps so many others, yet it also hurts the deepest part of your heart. A charity for cancer, and not just any cancer either—childhood cancer. Two years into working herself into the ground, I knew exactly what I wanted to do once I graduated high school—nursing with a minor in business. If Mom ever stepped down from her roll, which I know she will eventually, that is if Dad ever retires, I’m more than willing to step into her shoes and take the reins.
“Hello, I’m Vanessa Taylor. You can call me Nessa, though.” I hold my hand out, slowly, attempting to introduce myself after staring at the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on for longer than normal.