Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
That means something to me. I’m not sure what—but something.
I stand in the big bedroom, looking around. It’s nothing like my room back at the apartment and nothing like my room back at the manor. Instead, it’s a blank canvas, a vague shape that can be filled with anything I want. This is my life now and it’s only beginning, and this is my one chance to start it out the way I want to.
It’s hard to keep myself grounded when all I want to do is scream at Carmine and run the hell away from this place forever. I’d rather be stuck in my crummy little apartment with Cassidy, terrified that mobsters are going to break down the door at any second, than standing here in this room protected by security and lost in the middle of a house that isn’t my home. And yet if I let myself obsess over the negative then I’ll miss all the potential positives.
This place can be mine if I want it to be.
Carmine’s not going to argue about decoration. Whatever I decide, he’s going to accept, mostly because I don’t think he cares. The house came with furniture, but that’s easy enough to change—especially if I can get access to his credit cards—and if I put my mind to it, I can turn this massive place into a real, actual home.
It won’t be easy. It’ll take a lot of time and effort. And I don’t want to do it.
But now’s one of the few chances I’ll get to try to turn my situation around, at least in this one small way, and take control of my rapidly cartwheeling life.
Chapter 11
Carmine
Brice steps out of the limo and I swear my heart drops into my fucking stomach and does a goddamn breakdance right there in my guts.
She looks incredible. Long legs, dark eyelashes, a dress with a slit up the side and tight in all the right places, relatively conservative while flirting with that dirty side I know she’s always hiding. I told her to look good but I didn’t think she’d look like this, and fucking hell, it makes me want to throw her back into that car and ravage her while the driver circles the block.
Instead, I offer her my arm and look at her like I’m going to devour her whole. Tonight, I’d like her to be my meal. “Right this way, Ms. Rowe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scavo.” She smiles slightly and flutters her eyelashes. “If I knew where we were going, I might not have gotten so dressed up. All you said was to put on something nice. I think I went a little overboard.”
“No, this is perfect.” I pat her hand and steer her toward the restaurant. The doorman opens it for us and the hostess leads us to our table without being prompted. It’s the nicest French restaurant in Dallas, the sort of exclusive place with a mile-long waitlist and a tasting menu that costs a small mortgage. It also happens to be owned by the Arc family, which means I have a standing invitation, and it helps that I tip well and insist on paying despite Ford always trying to comp my meal.
“I’ve barely had time to unpack,” she says as she swirls her wine, some fancy red I didn’t bother reading about and only chose because it’s obscenely expensive. Maybe I’ll let Ford comp that one. “And now you’re dragging me out to dinner.”
“Awful, I know. I’m just the absolute worst.”
She smiles slightly and shrugs. “At least you took me somewhere nice. What’s the occasion, anyway?”
“The occasion is, you’re my fiancée and we haven’t been seen in public yet. We’re showing our faces.”
She deflates somewhat. “Oh, right, it’s a business meal. I guess I was thinking—never mind.”
What’s that supposed to mean? Did she think this was a date? It’s a date and it’s not a date—I meant it when I said we had to show our faces. I’m marrying her for a reason, and I want this whole town to start talking about Carmine Scavo and Brice Rowe, which means we need all the gossipy rich ladies to spot us having a nice meal together, flirting with each other, maybe playing fucking footsies under the table, maybe even I’ll drop down there and spread her legs and do something more. Hell, that’d get the ladies taking.
If she wanted this to be a date—what’s that mean? I was under the impression that our relationship was going to remain a business transaction and nothing more, but a date implies something else. Maybe it’s as simple as she wants to get to know the man she’s about to pledge her life to, or maybe it’s something else.
Maybe she’s thinking about the way it feels when I give in to what I want and treat her like the filthy girl I know she is.