Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
The one-hour drive turned into almost two hours due to traffic and an accident. When Rhys walked into the daycare center, he saw that his son had been crying. He scooped the boy up in his arms and asked the director to bill Celeste. In the end, it was his money paying the daycare fees so what would it really matter.
Rhys and Trey picked up dinner before heading home. Every block or so, Rhys reminded Trey not to give Fenway a French fry. Once they got to their house, which sat pointedly on Bellevue Avenue among the other mansions, they went in through the main entrance. Trey ran immediately to the study, where he expected his grandparents to be. By the time Rhys caught up with his son, he found Trey nestled on his grandmother’s lap, with Fenway waiting for attention, and his father in a wingback chair holding a glass of scotch.
“This is a surprise,” Gloria Wainwright said as she held her grandson.
“Is it?” Rhys asked, cocking his eyebrow at his mother. She smirked and nuzzled Trey. “Dad, after I put Trey to bed, I’d like to talk to you about an issue.”
Rhys Wainwright I, aptly known around their home as Senior nodded. “It’s about time.”
Rhys agreed. He wasn’t shocked at all that his father knew exactly what needed to be discussed. His parents hadn’t made it a secret how they felt when it came to Trey’s mother.
After quickly talking with his parents, Rhys took Trey and Fenway up the grand staircase and down the hall to their apartment. The Wainwrights may all live in the same house, but Rhys had separate quarters from his parents and if he wanted, could go days without seeing them. The only time he lived away from them was when he went to college at Harvard, and he lived on campus. At one time, he thought about buying a home, but Wainwright Estate, which had been built during the Gilded Age, had everything he needed. Plus, it would all be his someday.
three
Maisie carried her work bag, the groceries, and twelve pack of soda up the flight of stairs to her and Dorian’s apartment. She kicked the door and waited for her roommate to answer. When she did, she took the bag from Maisie’s hands, set it on the table and dug through the contents until she had what she needed. Maisie grumbled out, “You’re welcome,” when she heard the soft click of the bathroom door.
She unpacked the groceries and thought about taking a fork to her apple pie right then and there. Maisie wasn’t an emotional eater, but she felt like she could become one after her missed encounter. The man of her dreams, at least in her mind, had been within reach and the only thing she managed to do was smack her head against his. Of course, she followed up his lack of need for medical attention by agreeing that yes, he was, in fact, fine.
Their apartment was an okay size. It worked for them, except they only had one bathroom. That was a drawback. Both of their bedrooms were large enough for their needs, the kitchen was decent, and the living room was big enough to have a sectional couch in it. Their entertainment wall was courtesy of Ikea. They had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on either side of their television. It was a Pinterest dream come true.
“So fucking fine,” she muttered as she put the pie into the refrigerator. “Fuck.” Maisie groaned when she realized she forgot to buy the vanilla ice cream she wanted for her pie. “It’s all your fault.”
“Who did what?” Dorian asked from behind Maisie. She closed the refrigerator and slumped against it. “Geez, who rained on your parade today?” Dorian leaned against the counter. Her jet-black hair was cut into a stylish bob, and she looked ragged, but perfect. She freelanced as a website designer and graphic artist and was highly sought after. Dorian had many big city job offers, but turned them all down. She loved the flexibility of being her own boss, setting her own hours, and charging what she felt her work was worth.
“I met a guy. Sort of.”
“Either you did, or you didn’t.” Dorian pointed out. “There is no such thing as a halfway meeting.”
“Yes, there is.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“The sheer definition of ‘meet’ is to come into the presence or company of someone by chance or arrangement,” Maisie told her friend. “Therefore, technically, I met someone today.”
“What’s his name?”
Maisie thought for a moment. “Mr. Butter.”
“Butter?”
She shrugged. “He was smooth.” Maisie pouted. She pushed away from the refrigerator and flopped into a chair at their four-person dining room table. “I’m an idiot.”
Dorian rummaged around the kitchen and then sat down next to her with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “This calls for wine.”