Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Night one is hardly even down yet.
I’m busy thinking up a goddamn storm over here when I hear the first soft snores drift over from the other side of the bed.
She’s asleep.
Right now. Already.
I go still and quiet, so quiet that I barely even have a pulse to echo back at me, and yes, her deep breaths are real. The snores are real.
Where was I? Ahhh, yes. Night one is hardly even down, and I’m already fucked.
I have a week without her to get myself back in shape. A week before spending another night here. And all of me damn well be in shape and whipped into the finest form. I have never failed at a job before or one single test in any capacity, and this isn’t going to be the first.
It’s not the contract, and failure isn’t going to get added to Appendix fucking X or whatever letter we’re on.
That makes me think about Ignacia’s wild suggestion and about those old fogies that took up her bed, her time, her laughter, and her smiles…what the hell? Am I jealous? That sick feeling in my stomach feels way too much like rage, and I’m back to thinking about breaking dicks again. It makes me want to chuckle because that is not a thing I’m ever going to do, especially not to nice old grandpappies.
I nearly laugh. I really do. This is an old bed, and it’s an old house, so the frame would probably shake, and I’d likely wake Ignacia up. Then, she’d make more wild suggestions and look at me with those too-blue eyes and that lovely fairy face against all that golden backlighting, and I’d be in trouble.
So, just no. I stay utterly silent and will myself the fuck to sleep so I can gather myself the fuck tomorrow so I’m air fucking tight and have zero fucking possibility of turning this job into an epic fucking fuck up.
Chapter five
Ignacia
Itruly don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not the devil. I don’t even have devilish tendencies. Something about this man and his inexplicable extra nights and the contract he got me to sign has turned me into a woman I don’t recognize.
Oh, and the whole I’m-not-usually-a-devil thing needs some clarification. Technically, I’ve always been sweet as pie. But the people who got scammed by supposedly me? They didn’t think so. They wished bad karma on me, no doubt, and karma decided to stop taking days off for once and fucked me over a million times worse than Aiden did.
I’m out here in the middle of nowhere. Missing my old life, my friends, my family, my career. I’m trying like freaking fuck to rebuild and get on with it and be okay, and then bam! Karma kicks me in the face by providing Mr. Toes. Alright, fine. Mr. Taves.
I know that is his legit name as he insisted because it was on the contract he made me sign. The contract he has endlessly referred to as if it rules his life. And mine.
I’ve spent the past week getting to know the man, at least as much as the internet will allow me to, and a few things have become apparent. He’s richer than I thought. Richer than god, although, doesn’t god—however that might exist—own the entire universe? That’s pretty darn rich. I’m not sure Beau has that kind of reach.
His parent company owns multiple companies. So many that it’s hard to keep track of what exactly the man does, or did, or what he might be doing that he doesn’t have people to do for him. It’s probably not much. Rich people always have people to do anything and everything, short of wiping their bum, though I’m pretty sure they could afford it if they wanted. With twenty-two-karat gold toilet paper.
Does Beau poop into a gold toilet?
Anyway.
I’ve sewn up a real hecking storm this week, pouring my frustrations into my dresses. No, not literally. I’m not going to send them out with my bad karma attached. It’s just the most apt expression to describe it.
I was joking about the sex. The website I use has a contract that both parties sign, and it keeps names anonymous. If there’s ever a problem, I suppose they’d be divulged, but it’s up to the people involved how much they want to share, including personal details, once they meet. It’s hard for me because anyone can find out my name, given that they know where I live. They just have to run the title. It’s a relief I’m using a fake identity. Kind of. It’s still the identity I’m stuck with for the moment.
Whatever it is, I never had a problem.
And then, along came Beau.
Beau, whom I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all week.
His snappy intelligence and the way he’s all hard and cold to almost deadness, proper and ruled by contracts, regulations, and doing things the right way, and so insanely stacked and beautiful that I’d let him do pretty much anything to me if I didn’t maul him to death like a horny panther first.