Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“Why?” I let the word draw out in a long, frustrated groan into my pillow. “I was going to sleep in.”
“I thought you might like to run with me. You never run with me anymore.” If the observation had sounded petulant, I would have been miffed, but he was right; at the beginning of our relationship, a brisk Saturday morning run through Central Park had been part of our routine.
But it wasn’t the season for outdoor running, and since Central Park was two hours away, I doubted it was in the cards for today. “I hate the treadmill. And you’re so competitive.”
“I promise, I won’t look at your settings,” he vowed. “It’s going to be a lovely, snowy day. Why not get up, have a jog, then I’ll make us breakfast, and we can spend all day by the fire, just the two of us.”
The bed was so warm. And so lovely. But so was Neil. I had been working a lot lately, and he hadn’t complained one bit, even when I’d spent nights in the city. He’d bought me this sprawling, ocean-view mansion because I hadn’t wanted to be trapped in Manhattan, and I kept abandoning him—and it—to run back to our old apartment. If all he demanded in return was the occasional workout companionship, I supposed I couldn’t begrudge him that.
“Okay.” I stretched and forced myself to sit up. “I’m in. Give me ten to brush my teeth and get dressed.”
I stumbled to the dressing room. I was nearly at the door when the phone rang, and I paused. “Who would be calling us this early?”
“I’ll answer it. You should get changed,” he advised with a smirk as he reached for the cordless handset. “Tight yoga pants, maybe. And that pink sports bra you’re always complaining doesn’t have enough support.”
“Perv.” I laughed and left him to deal with whoever was calling at—I checked the time on one of Neil’s dinner-plate-sized watches and groaned—seven in the freaking morning.
When Neil and I had first started dating, my closet situation had involved a pipe my landlord had expressly warned us not to hang stuff on. I’d had a lot less space back then, and a lot less clothing. One of the perks of being engaged to a billionaire—and there were, well, billions of perks—was the ridiculous amount of clothing a fashion-obsessed girl could buy, and the lavish space to hang it in. The dressing room in the master bedroom was bigger than some Manhattan boutiques I’d been in, with similar features. The overhead lighting was bright, but soft, and twin trifold mirrors on either side of the room cut back on our “getting ready” arguments.
I loved my fiancé, but he was vain as hell and a total mirror hog. And there was only room for one of those per closet.
Down the center of the room were two huge, glass-topped consoles to hold his watches and cufflinks and my jewelry, except for my diamond collar, which stayed locked in a safe. Our shoes were lined up neatly on a wall of custom shelves, and I plucked my sneakers from the bottom row. I grabbed the yoga pants Neil had suggested—my ass is pretty fantastic, and giving him a treat wouldn’t hurt—but passed up the weak sports bra for something with a little less jiggle. I don’t have the biggest rack in the world, but unsecured boobs are no fun on a treadmill.
I dressed, tied my shoes, pulled my hair up in a ponytail and headed back out to the bedroom. Since he wasn’t talking anymore, I figured he was off the phone.
“Who was it?” I asked.
Neil was on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his hands over his face. It wasn’t until he sat up and I saw how red and wet his eyes were that I realized he was crying. He hiccupped back a breath, and his face crumpled as he said, “My mum’s died.”
CHAPTER TWO
We flew to London that evening.
Emma and Michael joined us in our private jet, despite Neil’s protest that his daughter was far too pregnant to travel.
“Daddy, I’m going. Besides the second trimester is the perfect time to travel, it says so on all the websites,” she’d pleaded. “Please, I can’t miss Gran’s funeral. I’ll never feel right about it.”
Michael had even dared to challenge his father-in-law, something he’d rarely done in the past. “Sorry, Mr. Elwood, but I’m afraid I have to overrule you on this one. We can either come with you, or I can get us on a commercial flight, where the pilot isn’t from the charter company you’ve carefully selected based on safety rating.”
Neil might have been tough in the boardroom, but he was nothing when up against the only man who loved Emma as much as he did.
“How are you doing, Daddy?” she asked as she returned to her seat across the aisle from him. She’d been drinking ginger ale on the flight to battle nausea, and she swirled the ice in her glass. Her nose was stuffy from the occasional cry she’d been having. Between motion sickness and grief, she looked thoroughly miserable.