Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Our brood is either going to be beautiful … or interesting-looking.
“Why are you staring at me?” Slade breaks his silence, his dark gaze darting my way.
“I wasn’t staring at you.” I scoff, fumbling a few pieces of popcorn into my mouth.
“You were. And you have been. Maybe you should watch this movie—the movie you picked out?”
“Okay fine,” I say. “I was just trying to picture what our future kids would look like.”
His brows meet. “Really? That’s what you were thinking about just now?”
I nod, chewing. “Aren’t you curious?”
“Not really.”
“Do you even want kids?” I ask a question I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to. “Or is it just another obligation you have to fulfill?”
“You want to have this conversation right here, right now?” he asks while the sister drama continues to play out. He has a point—it’d make for an obnoxious soundtrack to this sort of discussion.
“No,” I say.
The scene ends with the sisters hanging up on each other.
“Do you think we’ll have them the old-fashioned way?” I ask another question that’s been on my mind lately. The contract doesn’t say we can’t use IUI or IVF or even a surrogate. Technically we don’t even have to consummate the marriage to have babies …
But twenty-four years is a long time to be a virgin, and I don’t want to go another twenty. I’m patient, but not that patient. I suppose I could have an affair given that the foundation of our arrangement was never built on love, but I’ve never thought of myself as that kind of person. The thought of it alone makes me feel … sticky.
As insufferable as Slade is, I bet he can do some serious damage in the bedroom—in a good way, I mean.
Hate sex is a thing for a reason.
“That was my assumption, yes,” he answers. His words send my stomach to the floor.
He actually wants to sleep with me …
Does he think I’m sexy?
Does he find me attractive?
Or am I just a convenient hole to fill?
“How many people have you been with?” I ask as he reaches for his can of lime seltzer water.
He almost chokes on his drink. “Seriously?”
“No judgement. Just curious.”
Clearing his throat, he presses his lips into a firm line. “I don’t know that number off the top of my head.”
“That many, eh?” I lift my brows.
“No, it’s just not something I think about.” He leans back against the sofa, running his palm along the top of his muscled thigh as he draws in a long breath. His lips move softly as he whispers to himself. “Twelve, thirteen maybe?”
“Which is it? Twelve or thirteen?”
“Does it make that big of a difference to you?”
I roll my eyes. “I just don’t want to be number thirteen. It’s unlucky.”
“Says who?”
I place a hand over my chest. “Says moi.”
“Never took you as the superstitious type,” he says. “You know, superstitious people tend to be the easiest ones to manipulate.”
“Says who?”
“Says the Journal of Political Science,” he cites his source, like the hot nerd that he is. “People who believe things without proof, tend to believe more things than the average person.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“I’m not saying you’re an idiot.”
“Anyway.” I reach for the remote and rewind the movie a bit. “You’re not as experienced as I assumed you’d be.”
“Were you expecting my number to be higher?”
I laugh. “Much.”
“How much?”
“Thirty, maybe forty,” I say. “I mean, you’re an attractive guy. You live in a city filled with beautiful women. You travel all around the world. I figured you’d want to sow as many wild oats as you could before you had to marry me.”
“Thanks for stereotyping me. Appreciate it.”
I chuff. “Any time.”
“What about you?” he turns the tables before we can dig into his number any deeper. “How many have you been with?”
Holding up my fist, I form my fingers into the shape of a zero.
“Liar,” he says.
“Give me a Bible right now and I’ll swear on it.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’m a virgin,” I say.
“You … saved yourself for me?” He squints as he studies me.
On the TV, Rose Byrne is tossing back her lemon drop martini and scanning a bar for someone to take home so she can have revenge sex. Whoever wrote this terrible script did Rose dirty. It’s nothing but cliché after cliché.
“Not on purpose,” I say. “Just … the opportunity never came up. I always went to all girls’ schools, then I went to an all girls’ college. I never bothered dating anyone because I was afraid I’d get attached or he’d get attached and the whole thing would inevitably end in heartbreak since I was already promised to someone, so it was just easier to avoid it altogether.”
“Have you ever been kissed?”
“Of course,” I say. “Many times. And I’ve messed around with guys too.”
He rests his elbow along the back of the sofa as he angles his body towards me. It’s as if he’s seeing me in a new light, though I can’t tell whether or not that light is flattering or appalling. Half of me would pay a penny for his thoughts, but the other half of me is vehemently against it in case he’s thinking about how my inexperience might lead to a disappointing wedding night.