Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
This static is so much better than feeling numb.
I’m glad we’re going to Reuben’s place, because I don’t actually want to go back to mine. Even Josh doesn’t know quite how much I’ve been avoiding my own company lately. It’s been getting worse. I was mainly at his place before Ells came along, but lately I’ve been becoming more of a third wheel. And then there’s Caroline’s news… her sweet little baby bump…
As much as I tell myself it doesn’t matter for shit, things have changed. I cram in proposals, and binge watch TV, but the pang of loneliness has been jabbing me. I nearly booked a holiday over the holidays, it was doing my head in that much. But I have nowhere to go. I’d still be lonely on a beach in Timbuktu.
“This is mental,” I say. “You don’t have to pay me for sitting in a car with you.”
“I know I don’t, and you don’t have to be sitting in a car with me. This is at my request, not yours.”
“So you’re paying forty-eight grand for what? Me chilling at your place while you hand out goodie bags in a Santa costume? You won’t be getting a go with my goodie bags for hours.”
He chuckles. “You could see it like that.”
“How else is there to see it?”
He takes another turn, towards Mayfair. “I see it as a fair proposal. You catch up on your beauty sleep, I do my grotto shift, and then we take it from there.”
The butterflies in my stomach are on overdrive. I feel like such a state in this car. A piss soaked hooker, next to a suited, booted millionaire. But when I study him more closely, there are some telltale signs I haven’t noticed before. His hair is slightly dishevelled, and his tie is a bit loose. He looks tired, not fresh after a morning shower, ready to hit the mall for the day. Mr Sinclair looks drawn. His eyes hooded.
“Did you have a late night?” I ask him.
“Maybe.”
I check the app for the exact time his proposal landed in my inbox. Hmm. Just after I arrived at the glory wall. Interesting.
“You didn’t pull an all-nighter yourself, did you?”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “So many questions from a girl who desperately needs a shower and some sleep. Just relax. Have a good long snooze if you want to.”
A snooze is the last thing I want. All I want is to touch him. To talk to him. To be with him.
He pulls into a Mayfair driveway, and it’s hardly a surprise that his place is one of the impressive red brick manors that cost multi-millions. It only reinforces how much of a messy shit show I am when I drag my soggy butt out of his car. I stare up at the Mayfair palace as he opens the front door. Impressive, and full of character. Another opposite to my side of life. The Belgravia towers are uber flash and fresh. Glass fronted and modern chic. Gorgeous, but not homely. Not for me anymore, living solo. Ever since the opulence and the wow factor wore off, it’s been cool but bland. Like my personal life.
I’m sure I shouldn’t be here in Mayfair. This is fucking madness. But as I step into Reuben’s hallway, I feel weirdly at home. It’s Reuben’s energy as he slips his jacket off, and the tenderness with which he helps me with mine. I’m in nothing but foul smelling lingerie as I kick off my stilettos and put them on the shoe rack, but his smile doesn’t waver at all.
Guess he’s seen me a lot worse.
“Let’s get you in the shower,” he says, and takes my hand.
The details around me are blurry as he leads me upstairs, because all I can focus on is him. The strength of his hand in mine. His smile as he turns on the shower in one of his grand bathrooms and checks out the heat until it’s ready. “Nice and hot.”
I giggle. “Me or the shower?”
“Both.”
I don’t take off my lingerie before I step under the running water, just step in and lather myself up with soap as Reuben watches. This lingerie needs a clean before I’d let it even make an appearance on Reuben Sinclair’s deluxe marble floor. Once it’s lathered and drenched, I take it off, tossing it to the side of the shower as I start work on myself, shampooing my hair and sighing at how good it feels as the pool of filth disappears down the plughole.
“May I join you?” Reuben asks. “Santa needs a morning shower before he gets going.”
“You’re the client, User 5639. You can do whatever the hell you want with me.”
He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt, and I curse the fucking steam on the glass for blurring my view. This is my first sight of the man beneath the suit. The unsurpassable Reuben Sinclair. I want it etched into my eyeballs for ever.