Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I loved my dad – he was a great listener and such a wonderful man – but I was worried about disappointing him. I knew he wanted me to come clean, to tell the truth. I knew he wanted Ada to have a father.
I just wished her father was literally any other man than Nico fucking Ulrich.
7
Nico – Monday
Even after a mostly-relaxing weekend where I only worked a few hours, I still felt burned out and tired in the office on the following Monday. I’d slept more than eight hours the previous night, almost a record for me, but I was exhausted. I had heartburn like I’d been out drinking all night and there were dark circles under my eyes that I was starting to believe would be permanent if I didn’t start being more careful.
On top of everything, I still couldn’t shake the thought of Harper from my mind. I’d even been dreaming about her over the last week, which was actually insane – I never dreamt about anyone, not even celebrities.
She was becoming an obsession for me, and I felt like my life was dangerously close to spiraling out of control.
Just as I opened Outlook and began combing through my emails, there was a soft, hesitant knock on my door.
“What?” I yelled.
The door swung slowly open and Portia walked in. She was wearing a corduroy skirt and a blouse that clearly showed her bra. Her hair was tousled like always and she gave me a shy smile.
“Mr. Ulrich, I have some good news,” she said softly.
“Louder,” I said.
Portia cleared her throat. Her pale cheeks flushed bright red and she stammered.
“Um, sorry, Mr. Ulrich,” she said, still barely speaking above a whisper. “There’s this fashion magazine, they want to meet with you.”
“Get out,” I scoffed.
Portia backed towards the door and I rolled my eyes.
“Not literally,” I told her sharply. “It’s an expression.”
The circles on her cheeks turned scarlet red and she giggled nervously.
“Here,” she said, stepping forward and putting a print-out on my desk. “They emailed me, but I thought you should see it before I call them back.”
“Thanks,” I muttered as I reached for the piece of paper. I was sure that it was bullshit – why the fuck would a fashion magazine want to meet with a sports agent – but when I saw the logo at the top of the page, my heart slowed to a dull thud.
HAUTESCENE.
It was the new internet magazine, the same place where I’d discovered that Harper worked. With my gut churning, I flicked my hand in the air to dismiss Portia. She squawked anxious before scurrying out of my office and closing the door behind her.
I frowned as I read over the paper. HAUTESCENE wanted to meet with me – apparently, I’d been nominated as one of the best-dressed men in New York – and they had an exclusive event planned at Rhouge, an upscale club known for its provocative parties. I’d been invited – and attended – several. The space was often used by a local fetish group: Rhouge was famous for being ... friendly towards alternative lifestyles and BDSM.
I had to admit that I was surprised. It had been years since I’d been to Rhouge, and the prospect of going back was oddly thrilling. I wondered if Harper would be there. I wondered if she’d speak to me this time.
My cock began to harden as I pictured Harper, all dolled up in a fetish outfit: a tight patent leather dress that showed off her slender curves. Heavy makeup, false eyelashes.
The fire in her green eyes would be sexier than anything else there.
If it were any other fashion magazine, even an established one, there was no way I’d consider doing anything like this. After all, being profiled for being a good dresser didn’t exactly seem very manly. I could just picture my father groaning and rolling his eyes at the thought of his son doing something so decidedly un-masculine.
But if HAUTESCENE was a route to Harper, well, I’d take it.
And just like that, her contact information was at the bottom of the page. As Portia had said, the email was addressed to her – it asked her to “find a convenient time on Mr. Ulrich’s schedule for a phone call” and even though it was signed by Nell Taylor, the CEO of the magazine, but I could do myself one better.
I could call Harper.
This was my chance – this was my time to talk to her, to explain everything. I didn’t know why she’d gotten so upset years back when I’d asked her to pretend to be my wife, but this was my opportunity to find out.
I grinned as I settled back in my chair.
“Portia!” I yelled.
There was a loud crash! sound from the hallway, then Portia yanked open my door and practically ran inside.