Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
I noticed that her brows were a shade darker than her icy blonde locks. That they made her beauty wilder. More dramatic.
Her eyes, too, weren’t the traditional blue. They were pastel—the palest shade on the palette—rimmed by a navy circle.
It occurred to me that I could look at her face for hours on end without getting bored. Which was a preposterous thing, really.
Women usually bored me. Their faces, like their bodies, were interchangeable and entirely unexciting.
“Laugh again,” I ordered.
Her delicate brows crashed together. “Make me, then.”
“Impossible. I have no sense of humor.”
“Develop one.”
“It’s not a fucking film roll, Farrow. It’s going to take more than a couple hours.”
“Why do you need me to laugh, anyway?”
Because I felt something inside my chest, and I am desperate to feel it again.
It marked the first time since Dad had passed. And possibly the last.
But I wanted to try.
“Just do it.”
“Can’t fake it.” She shrugged, leaning back. “Though I bet you’re used to women faking things for you.”
No, I am not.
I never let them get close enough.
“I’m not funny. And neither are you, judging by your last joke.”
“Make an effort.” She tipped her chin up, maintaining eye contact. “You vowed to protect me. Said I was yours. Well, the path to a woman’s heart goes through her mouth. You have to make me laugh.”
It’s not your heart I’m after, I wanted to remind her.
Too bad she wasn’t Dallas Costa.
That mouth didn’t need any laughter. Just beignets.
We stood chest to chest now. Not touching, but close enough to do so if she tried. Which I wanted her to.
Desperately.
My heart was beating out of my chest, thump thump thump, trying to rip away from my arteries. I delved into my brain, struggling to conjure amusing things.
I didn’t laugh much. Or at all, to be honest. Very few things pleased me.
When I truly thought about it, Farrow topped the short list. Though I supposed making fun of her wouldn’t make her laugh.
“This is ridiculous.”
She tilted one shoulder up. “Not my fault you’ve never had to impress a girl in your life. Thirty-three is a good age to start.”
She’d Googled me. I’d never given her my age. This realization spread something hot inside my chest.
“When Ollie went to Oxford, he was initiated into Pierse Gav via a circle-jerk. Everybody masturbated into a cup, and the newbies had to drink it. He asked for seconds.”
Farrow gagged. “That’s not funny. That’s gross.”
“It is funny on two aspects. One—that Ollie is so ostentatiously decadent. And two—that he actually holds two degrees.”
He’d fucked off to England for his masters because he wanted to perform side research on European kinks for two years.
In other words, he wanted more leeway to fuck around without the peskiness of pretending to hold on to a job.
What little pity I was capable of, I reserved for Oliver von Bismarck’s future spawns. His life’s mission was to repopulate the world. One day, his children and grandchildren would wake up and realize their family tree was a wreath.
“If you have to explain the joke, it’s not funny.” She gave me a stern look as she copied my words. “Next.”
A ragged breath escaped me. No wonder comedians were always depressed. Humor exhausted me.
“I once ate a bag of oranges and suffered the consequences.”
“Again, gross. Not funny.”
I was becoming desperate, which both infuriated and thrilled me. Never in my life had I been desperate for anything.
“My aunt used to hide all her Birkins from her husband in the trunk of her G-Wagon. One time, she left the key in the ignition and someone stole the car. But they didn’t know they stumbled onto a goldmine of designer bags worth over one mil, so they dumped the bags on the side of the road. The cops recovered the bags and returned them to her.”
Farrow’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t laugh.
“Come on,” I snarled. “You almost laughed.”
“I also almost came when I had sex with Park Woo Bin on the roof of his dad’s skyscraper at seventeen. But I didn’t. Almost is the operative word here, Zach.”
I didn’t know who Park Woo Bin was.
I just knew he was a dead man walking.
“Laugh.” The command escaped as a strangled whisper.
“Make me,” she rasped, pushing her chest out so it almost touched my partially exposed torso.
I had no choice.
I had to take out the big guns.
Drawing a breath, I pivoted to a drawer, pulled it open, and sifted through a few photo albums, yanking out the one I needed. I removed a photo from its slot and returned to Farrow.
I dangled the photo by the tip as if it disgusted me (it did), handing it to her. She took care to grab it by the edge, remembering not to touch me.
“I’ve only lost a bet once.” I fastened the final button on my shirt, clearing my throat. “Oliver and Romeo made me dress up in leather head to toe.”