Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
There’s a walk-in closet lined with CEO suits. I sniff them. Drawers of ties and watches and folded socks and white button downs and boxer briefs. I touch them all. Shoes that I can see my reflection in. I smudge them with my fingers.
“Ray Donavan, meet Christian Gray.”
I take a selfie with all the cool shit in the background. I’ll put it on Instagram later.
#guesswhereIam
Nothing can compare to the master bath. Of course there’s a shower that will easily accommodate twenty people. A massive Jacuzzi tub. A towel warmer. Double vanity. Linen closet big enough to sleep in. But no one ever talks about the toilet.
Ever.
And this toilet?
It’s a toilet fit for a king.
Not only does it sit at just the perfect height, but it’s in a small nook all to itself with a door for privacy. There’s a magazine rack. An iPad. The fanciest damn toilet paper holder I’ve ever seen. And if you close the door, there’s a T.V. behind it.
A T.V.
A damn T.V.
In the bathroom.
The damn bathroom.
I spend the next two hours of my life in the bathroom. First, on the awesome toilet that comes equipped with a censored courtesy flush. Then in the shower. Then a long, hot soak in the Jacuzzi.
Every once in a while, my nerves get the better of me and reality infiltrates my mind with stupid questions.
What if the real Miss Sims shows up?
What if Mr. Swagger comes home early?
With each worrisome thought I find something new to distract me. Like the button on the side of the tub that illuminates a touch screen which allows me to control the temperature of the water, the lighting, the music and the pulse of the jets.
I let the sweet, instrumental music take me away and the jets lull me nearly to sleep until I’m like a raisin. Then I get out. Put on a little Maroon 5. Grab a towel from the warming rack. Almost die from a heat stroke. Lie down on the floor in the hallway to cool off because the tile in the bathroom is heated. And then I saunter naked into the closet and pick out one of the white, button down shirts that is a million percent cotton and feels like clouds on my skin.
“Sugar” plays—my jam.
I jump on the bed like it’s a trampoline. Fall flat on my back and look up. I wonder if this is what Miss Sims would do. She obviously doesn’t live here. Or if she does, she doesn’t dress here. Unless her room is the locked room. What if she comes home?
Don’t think like that.
She will not come home.
This is God’s plan.
He will not let her come home.
But what if Mr. Swagger isn’t the Mr. Swagger whose babies I want to have? He might be ninety. Batshit crazy. And smell like mothballs—which I highly doubt considering his clothes smell like the richest, most wonderful scent of clean with just a hint of the kind of cologne you can’t even get at Macy’s.
He’s not old.
He can’t be.
Remember….
This is God’s plan.
I trust God. Really, I do. But I search the apartment for a picture of Mr. Swagger anyway. Just to be sure. After digging through every drawer and looking in every room, minus the locked one, I come up empty handed.
In the office, I use the phone and hit the button labeled, concierge, and Alfred picks up on the second ring.
“How can I help you, Miss Sims?”
“Y’all got a restaurant here that’s open?”
“No, Miss. We don’t have a restaurant on site. But I can certainly refer you to one in the area.”
“Well, I don’t really feel like going out. And it seems the only restaurants in this part of town are really expensive…” What kind of apartment has a concierge but not a restaurant?
I flip my hair over my shoulder. This place is so cheap.
“No worries there, Miss Sims. I can assure you there’s not a place in the city that I can’t order from. Whatever you want is available.”
Wow. Mr. Swagger has the hook-up. Which means as his guest, I do too.
“Might I suggest Alinea? They have the finest salmon and terrine Chicago has to offer.”
What the fuck is terrine?
“Um…well I had that at lunch. You know any good pizza places?”
“Of course, Miss Sims.” I can hear his smile. “Tell me what type of pizza you prefer and I’ll give you my opinion of the best.”
“Yeah, I just like pepperoni with lots of cheese. And lots of pepperoni. And Dr. Pepper.”
“Very well, Miss. I’ll put the order in right away and will ring you before I come up.”
I hang up with Alfred, take a spin in the chair, stumble into the living room and curl up on the couch with the big fluffy blanket that’s draped across the ottoman. A scary movie seems fitting. But I can’t figure out how to turn this damn T.V. on. I’m still struggling with it when Alfred arrives with my pizza.