Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
“I hate it,” she whispers.
My lips pull up. “I knew you would.”
I see the confusion in her eyes, but she says nothing else as she grabs her suitcase and wheels it to the closet. I should be unpacking. Instead, I lean against one of the tall cabinets and watch as she starts unpacking, shaking her head each time she finds a different article of clothing.
“You’re a dick, you know that?” She glares up at me.
“I know.” I offer her a smile that I hope looks apologetic.
Throwing her things into the suitcase like that for someone like her, who likes her clothes neatly folded, was a dick move. She said she didn’t know what to pack, and I knew less, so I just threw in the majority of her closet. Now that I’m looking at the pile of clothes, I feel kind of bad. I take a step forward to help her. She looks up at me again — not a glare, not a smile, just a hard stare.
“Please don’t try to help,” she says. “You’ve done enough.”
Ain’t that the fucking truth. The mess I made in her suitcase is nothing in comparison to what I’ve done to her — to us. I mean, fuck, she wouldn’t even answer a simple question because she thought I’d use it to taunt her. I’ll have to make up for it somehow. After she set the shoes where she wants them, she starts pulling out the dresses and hanging them. I’m shocked that only the green one is wrinkled, considering. I’ll have to iron it for her. Or steam it. Or whatever I can do to that material to take the wrinkles out. She puts the white one on a hanger and stares at it once it’s hanging. Up top, it’s a corset. The kind women wear in the bedroom to impress their partners. I guess sewing it onto a dress and wearing it outside the house is in style now. Images of her tits in that dress flash through my mind. Sweet Jesus, who the fuck decided that was a good idea?
I clear my throat. “You should wear it tonight.”
Her eyes shoot to mine. “If I wear it tonight, I won’t have anything to wear to our fake wedding.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
Again with the wedding bullshit. I push off the cabinet and run my fingers through my hair. For someone who acts like they don’t care about anything, she sure as hell gives a fuck about this. Maybe I should’ve made her sign a paper contract instead of a digital one. Maybe I should draft a new one that just reads: THIS IS A REAL MARRIAGE. Anything. I can’t figure out which part bothers her. I know Lyla. Sure, she signed the contract for my sake, but I don’t buy that this is what she’s upset about. If she genuinely didn’t want to, she wouldn’t have. Guilt or not. I don’t care what anyone says. Besides, she would have made thirty snarky comments about the contract itself. Is it that she wants to walk down the aisle? Fuck. Maybe she needs a ring to make it real. I hadn’t even thought of that. Lyla’s not a materialistic person, but whether she admits it or not, buried deep, deep, deep, deep, deep inside her is a hopeless romantic. She probably wants me to get down on one knee and declare my love for her. Fuck. That has to be what this is.
My palms suddenly feel sweaty. I rub them against my shorts. I actually have a ring for her — I’ve had one for her — and a proposal speech I’ve rehearsed countless times. I could propose to her tonight when we get home. But if I give her an option, she might say no. Fuck. If I get down on one knee in front of this woman and she flat-out says no to me. . .I can’t think about it. It doesn’t cease to amaze me that for my entire life, everything was a sure bet (my father’s presence notwithstanding), yet with her, I never know where I stand. That really fucks with someone like me.
“You can buy a wedding dress,” I say after a moment.
“You mean you can buy me a wedding dress,” she says, with a twinkle in her eyes.
I just smile. If I talk and we start bantering now, we really won’t fucking make it to this thing. She finally finishes hanging up the dresses and a few blouses that also need to be ironed. I’m really kicking myself for this right now. I fucking loathe ironing, but it’ll show her that I care, so I’m going to do it. She moves on to her underwear, grabs them all in one hand, and walks over to the drawers on her side of the closet. I expect her to fold them, but she just dumps them in there and plucks out a little white thong that has the tiniest trip of lace. My mouth is already watering. I won’t survive her. If I have to stand next to her, looking hot as fuck in that dress, knowing that she’s wearing that underneath, I might have a heart attack at my father’s estate.