Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Dex, I… okay, yeah. This weekend.”
He clears his throat and heads to the door. “I’ll bring you my full report on the Sugar Bowl then. Just send me a few of your financials like we discussed and I’ll throw it back.”
My heart sinks like a dead balloon.
There are other things I’d like him to throw. Namely me.
Be nice, girl. He’s being the adult here since you can’t.
“S-sure thing. Thanks for… catching me. That would’ve left a nasty bruise,” I call after him, wishing my voice wasn’t so ragged. “See you Sunday.”
He raises a hand to wave as he almost runs to his car, but he doesn’t look back at me.
My face falls.
I’m the one causing this confusion.
I’m almost certain he’s sporting the world’s largest hard-on and it kills me. Which is only fair, considering my lady bits are one more kiss away from starting the place on fire.
I pick up some glass cleaner and a cloth and throw myself into wiping windows, scrubbing harder than I need to, finishing what we started cleaning and wishing viciously that he could finish what we started, too.
When did I get this pathetic?
Good God.
This whole thing would be easier with a man who was even marginally less attractive. But really, I got lucky.
I’m doing an incredibly stupid thing with a man who’s not the uptight, money-addicted monster he seemed to be at first.
In fact, he’s such a gentleman it’s driving me bonkers.
I scowl at my reflection in the clean window like it’s about to put a hex on me.
This was a crime of passion.
A bigger mistake barely averted.
So why do I wish so badly we’d made it again?
Because we’ll see each other on Sunday. Then we’ll have to pretend we don’t know the meaning of sexual tension while it’s eating us alive.
In other words, I’m so comically screwed I have to keep laughing through the rest of the night so I don’t break down in a crying fit.
14
SWEET MOMENTS (DEXTER)
Sunday morning I arrive at Juniper’s place, a bag from the tailor’s in my hand and the other on the buzzer for her apartment.
I texted her this morning to say I was coming with a surprise, but I don’t think she’s seen the message yet.
I hope she’s awake.
She’ll probably think I’m overstepping my boundaries as usual with this dress—and maybe I am—but if she’s going to fit in with my family, she should look the part with a killer outfit to match that overpriced ring.
I glance back at my vehicle, ever alert for break-ins. The crime report for this area says auto thefts happen regularly around here.
My blood heats.
No fucking way should a single woman be living here. At least she doesn’t have her own car to worry about, though.
As for the building, I look up at it as I press the buzzer again.
The whole foundation looks like it’s about to cave in. I know these old buildings are stronger than they look, but this place is showing its age and bad health.
If I acquired it, I’d probably have it razed to the ground and start fresh with a new build, ignoring the fact that this location would be a desert for attracting quality guests.
Finally, the door clicks open and I start up the stairs.
There’s no point even checking the elevator—this place has the sort of maintenance where repairs take six months unless the owner gets a court order from the city.
Goddamn, that pisses me off.
We can’t all be in the high-end market, no, and lower-end housing runs on tight margins.
Still, I can’t imagine a business that doesn’t give a damn about its customer base, much less its own pride.
The last time I came here, I was so worked up on Patton’s shit, I never noticed the damp spots or the black mold on the walls. Or the broken glass scattered across one flight of stairs.
Shit, how is this girl still alive?
If she was really my fiancée, there’s no damn way I’d let her sleep another night here. I’d pack her shit and march her right out the door to—
No. I stop that thought before it has a chance to crystalize.
She’s not my fiancée.
Her personal life is none of my business beyond the arrangement.
She’s just a girl I’ve lured into helping me undo my self-inflicted damage. An associate. A sweet little pretender I wanted to devour last night, consequences be damned.
Get it together, dickhead, a voice spits in the back of my head.
I reach for her door and knock.
A deadbolt clicks and she opens up, revealing a vision of an angel with her hair mussed, dressed down in shorts and a tank that exposes an inch of midriff.
Goddamn, she still looks incredible.
Red curls spill down her shoulders, her green eyes hazy with sleep. Those shorts show off legs I want thrown over my shoulders, hugging her every curve as she turns and gestures me in.