Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
I giggled. “Told you.”
We remained like that, resting beneath the genitalia-themed flowers, in contemplative silence for a long while. Time pressed down on us, making our bodies heavy with sleep, and it took an enormous effort from me to scoot up and roll onto my side so I could comfortably face him.
I said it in a hush. “Can I ask you something?”
He had his hands on his chest, fingers laced together, and his head lolled toward me. I wasn’t sure if it was a nod, but I went ahead like it had been.
“It’s none of my business, and you don’t have to answer, but . . . are you still in love with Jillian?”
This was the last question he expected to hear, and his lips parted to speak, yet all that came out was a breath. Then he blinked and shook his head. “No. I cared about her, but I was never in love. I can’t imagine she was in love with me either.” Concern rapidly overtook his expression. “Why? What’d she tell you?”
A strange sensation like relief flooded through me, and I disliked it. I shouldn’t care if he was still hung up on her.
I tucked a hand under my head as I gazed at him. After his shower, he’d changed into a white polo shirt and a pair of slacks, and he looked so fucking good, I could hardly stand it.
“She didn’t say much,” I offered. “Just that she was the one to end things, and you guys stayed friends afterward.” In my weakened state, my inhibitions began to crumble. “I couldn’t stay friends with any of my exes. I don’t talk to them anymore.”
“That’s probably because what you had with your exes was real.” Perhaps exhaustion was doing the same to him, pulling his guard down, and his eyes turned magnetic. They sucked me in until I was drowning in them. “Everything in my life has been manufactured,” he said softly, “so I’ve never had a chance at love.” He rolled his shoulders toward me, shifting on the bed so we were facing each other. “Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever even had a real relationship.”
He’d grown up with the world at his feet, but also crushed under the weight of enormous expectations. I’d envied Jillian for her wealth but grown to pity her as well. The snarky ‘poor, little rich girl’ mentality I’d had for her had become real.
She wasn’t free, and Vance wasn’t either.
And no amount of money could make a person happy when they were trapped living a life for someone else.
He blinked so slowly, I wasn’t sure his eyelids were going to open again, but they did. His blue eyes were unfocused. “You and me . . . already feels more real than anything else I’ve had.”
My heart fell out of tempo and tumbled through my body.
We both had a hand resting on the bed, and my gaze trailed over his long fingers, wishing he’d move them. We’d each only need to slide our hand a few inches toward each other to be touching. If he reached out, I’d meet him.
“It can be real,” I whispered, “if you want it to be.”
But his eyes closed again, and this time I knew they wouldn’t reopen. I tried to keep mine open and watch him sleep, but my brain shut down and I couldn’t resist the pull of sleep any longer.
A male voice in the distance woke me, and my eyes fluttered open. I was still so tired, and . . . where the hell was I? And what fucking time was it?
Reality came back to me one layer at a time. I was in a hotel in Monaco. It was still bright outside, and sunlight streamed in through the large windows that overlooked the terrace. Vance and I had fallen asleep without even closing the curtains.
Except I was the only one on the bed. I pushed up on my elbows and craned my neck, looking around for him.
He was far away, over by the desk in the sitting room and staring off into nothingness as he held his phone pressed to an ear. It gave me the perfect view of him in profile, and since he didn’t notice I was watching, it allowed me to appreciate every inch of him. He could look the part of a cutthroat attorney in a bespoke suit, or an approachable politician in slacks and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back.
But I thought he looked best in the role he wore now—a young, stylish, and confident man who was the symbol of his family and their brand. An embodiment of wealth and class and beauty.
“Yes, hello. I’m calling about Petra.” His voice was low, not wanting to disturb me. “I’m running behind and need to push our three o’clock.”