Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 123(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 123(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
So yes, I would call that a success.
The woman comes out of the shower naked, towel wrapped tightly around her skeletal body. She’s so thin, you can see her hip bones jutting out through the thick terry fabric. Yeah, this is definitely some other man’s fantasy.
But I’m a gentleman. I smile and say good morning before heading to the stove to make her an omelet, casual in my pajama bottoms. I brew a pot of coffee and offer her sugar and milk before throwing the woman a wink. Then comes the fresh orange juice, squeezed just for her. I do a bunch of considerate things, but it’s just a farce because both of us know that we’ll never see each other again.
I call two cars on my phone: one to bring her home and one to take me to work. She leaves before I do, and once the woman’s gone, I feel nothing but relief. Man, I’m getting old. Putting on my suit, I glance in the mirror. Same as always. Intense blue eyes, thick black hair and a square jaw. Yeah, it’s business as usual.
My car arrives. Damnit, it’s another rainy day. I understand the concept of April showers, but isn’t it nearly May? I watch out the window as a sea of umbrellas navigate the sidewalks and wonder where they all came from. The sidewalks are slick and gleaming, and people jostle one other as they try to get to work on time. Ah, Manhattan, where work is always first priority.
Then again, I’m used to it. I was raised in New York City, and have never lived elsewhere. It’s bizarre, isn’t it? Born and bred New Yorkers are as hard as nails, and most of us have never left this island for more than a vacation. I certainly haven’t. Nor do I want to, to be honest. The thought of going somewhere where there’s nothing but fields for miles around gives me the shakes.
The car pulls up to a tall office building, and I let myself out before striding into the marble lobby. Various people nod my way, with greetings of “Hello Mr. Lane” and “Good morning, sir.” Obviously, no one mentions that it’s nearly mid-morning and that I’m late.
After all, I own this outfit and their paychecks have yours truly’s signature at the bottom. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, right? Once the elevator whooshes all the way up, my receptionist jumps up to get me a black coffee and informs me that there’s a marketing meeting at three that I might want to pop in on. What would I do without Janelle? With a sincere thank you, I head into my office and close the door.
Man, this is the life. I settle into my desk, leaning back with my hands crossed behind my head. Rain beats against the window and I can still look out and see the sea of umbrellas, albeit much smaller, like little moving dots on a giant grid.
What do we have today? This morning, I’m pleased to note that there are three newspapers on my desk. I nod in appreciation. Nice one, Mark. I’d mentioned in passing yesterday that I liked to peruse a variety of news sources, and my assistant picked up on that right away. Mark’s been with me for two years, and the man still manages to come up with new things to make my life easier. A real life saver, that guy.
Sipping my coffee, I idly pick up the top paper, Two One Two, and automatically open up to the business section. But when I lift up the paper, a section slides out of its fold and flutters to the ground. With a grunt, I reach under my desk to retrieve it. It’s the Style insert; well, there’s something I never read. As I tuck it back into place, something catches my eye. There’s a headshot of a woman, probably no bigger than a stamp, but the air rushes out of my chest because in this photo, she’s absolutely gorgeous.
She has...well, she has what the woman from last night was missing. This woman in the photo seems to be full of life and vivacity, with a radiant smile and curly brown hair. It’s a huge contrast to the dead fish from last night with the hollows under her eyes and spackled on make-up. I glance at the beautiful reporter’s name. Casey Henderson, Journalist.
The woman has a wide smile that exudes warmth and humor with a devilish glint of hidden mischief in her eyes, and I just can’t get over her wild curls. I wish I could transform the black and white photo into color just to see what that hair looks like in person. It looks like a deep chestnut color, maybe with auburn highlights. Her eyes tease me, and I can almost see her licking those pouty pink lips.