Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
That night, I cook dinner. I go all out and make lobster ravioli from scratch, which takes a while and the grocery delivery costs a small fortune, but Simon did make it clear he doesn’t mind what I spend. By the time he comes in the door, I have everything plated, the ravioli drizzled with a light saffron sauce and garnished with fresh chives with creamy mashed potatoes on the side. I pour wine, light candles, and wave at the cloth-covered dining room table as he stares at me in stunned amusement.
“I’m willing to bet you’ve never had a meal like this in your own house before,” I tease, getting him seated.
He shakes his head and admits he doesn’t cook much. “But I could get used to this.”
“Don’t bother. This is a special occasion.” I sit across from him and raise my glass. “To my father’s recent financial windfall.”
Simon gives me a sly smile and clinks his glass to mine. “I heard there were some irregularities at the Social Security office recently. I’m guessing your father’s bonus check cleared? And he’s looking forward to his increased allotment?”
“I don’t know how you did it, but seriously, thank you.”
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal and takes a bite. The look on his face is worth all the effort. His eyes close and he smiles to himself like he’s truly enjoying something for the first time in a long while.
“That’s good,” he murmurs and looks at me, his eyes hooded and sensual, a smile still on his handsome lips, and my heart races in my chest. I’m not supposed to find him so attractive, but it’s hard when he looks at me like I’m about to be dessert.
“I’m glad you like it.” I’m flushed all over, feeling weirdly proud of my cooking skills. I mean, it’s not like I’ve had time to make anything in a long while and I wasn’t really sure how this would come out. But he’s acting like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever tasted, and that’s flattering.
“I’ll admit I was a little concerned. I wasn’t sure your father would buy the whole fake Social Security thing, but I put my best people on it. The checks should look identical to the real thing.”
“At this point, I think my dad isn’t going to question much, so long as money keeps pouring from the sky.”
He smiles as he continues to eat and I try not to look at him too much. We haven’t spent much time together since I came to live with him and I was starting to think it was better that way.
But this is nice. It’s dangerous, and I’m feeling a little too flushed just because some hot guy thinks my ravioli is good, but it’s nice.
I’ve been lonely. It’s easy to see it now that I have a little company. I was introduced to the rest of his family a couple days ago and while they were extremely nice—especially his mother, Freddie, she’s one of those warm and inviting women it’s hard not to feel good around—they’re still all but strangers to me. And I’m used to being surrounded by people all the time, even if they are only coworkers. The quiet of this empty house is starting to get to me.
“I was thinking he could win the lottery next,” Simon says casually. He leans back, his plate cleared, and sips his wine as he watches me.
I stiffen and slowly shake my head. “I don’t know how much you know about what happened to my father, but the lottery is basically the worst idea imaginable. That’s the scam he fell for.”
Simon goes quiet for a moment before he stretches his arm across the chair next to his. “Tell me about them. What do you know?”
I don’t want to talk about this, but it feels like the kind of information Simon should be aware of. Besides, at this point, it doesn’t really matter anymore. What happened to Dad already happened, and we’ve been working to put it behind us ever since.
But talking about it still hurts. Those early days after it first went down, when he came to me a completely broken man, racked with guilt and shame, drowning in debt and terrified for his future, those were bleak, terrible days. I still start sweating when I think about them.
“Dad thinks they were American.” I talk quietly, staring down at my plate. “At least, he says they had American accents and talked like Americans. That was part of what convinced him. They weren’t foreign, and he figured, Americans don’t scam other Americans like that.”
Simon lets out a long sigh. “I wish that were true, but there’s a growing industry of scumbags willing to work the most immoral and horrible schemes so long as they pay. But go on.”