Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
"Who doesn't serve drinks at a meeting?"
"They had water."
"It was eight thirty! They should have tea."
"Yeah." He chuckles. "You were cranky all morning. The look on your face when we finally left. And you told me to pull over at the first place we could find. I never thought I'd see you so excited to drink Starbucks."
"Their Earl Grey is solid."
"High compliments."
"Less talk. More tea."
"Yes, mistress." He winks.
I almost believe things are normal. I almost believe we're normal.
But we're not.
And he's not.
There's something going on with him.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask.
He grabs milk from the fridge. Fills a cup halfway. "You like it creamy?"
"Half milk, yeah."
He nods. Slips the cup into the microwave. Returns the milk to the fridge.
"Liam?"
"You should get ready. It's a quick drive."
"We're not taking the subway?"
"When do I ever take the subway?"
"It's faster." I smooth my shorts. "Usually."
"Not on a Sunday going uptown."
That's true. "You're wearing a towel."
"Yeah. But it's like you said. Takes longer for women to get ready."
"What if I go in this?"
He turns to me. Gives me a long, slow once-over. "I'm not going to object."
"Did you really buy me pajamas?"
"The only instructions I gave Bree were 'buy her whatever she wants.'"
"That's it?"
"I may have told her to put up a fight if you complained about high price tags."
"Liam Pierce needs a fiancée with expensive tastes?" I ask.
"How long have you worked for me?"
"Two years." Give or take.
"How many men in my position have you met?"
"Executives? A lot."
"And how do their wives dress?"
"I know." I don't know where to put my hands. I need to put them somewhere. Not his shoulders. Or his back. Or that cotton towel. "I'm just… It's weird."
"It is." The timer beeps. He grabs the mug of milk. Pours the brewed tea into it. "It was weird the first time I sent someone to Bree."
"Why did you?"
"She was a friend from college," he says. "An artist. She didn't come from money. She wasn't part of this world. She thought it would be like college."
"Keg stands and beer pong?"
He chuckles. "You see me drinking beer?"
"Appletini pong?" I suggest.
"Now that sounds like a game I'd play."
"You'd be wasted after three rounds."
"All the better." He holds up my mug, beckoning me.
Right. I'm drinking this tea. My normal morning routine.
No, my normal breakfast—eggs and toast—is nowhere to be seen. No doubt, there's some fancy rich people's version on the way.
Poached eggs. Scones. Rose petal jam.
I appreciate the free food. The fancy free food. And I'd kill for Liam's apartment.
But I'd rather be in my tiny studio, spreading Trader Joe's Raspberry Jam on cheap bread, reading a book alone.
No ruse. No lies. No struggling to tear my eyes away from the towel barely covering Liam's ass.
Okay. Maybe I don't mind that so much. Or I wouldn't. If I could touch him without ruining everything.
If I could press him against the counter, push the towel off his hips, wrap my hand around his cock.
"Your tea is getting cold." Liam's eyes flit to my bare legs. The ends of my boxers. "Those belong to your ex-boyfriend?"
"If I'm wearing them, they belong to me."
"Were they his?"
"Probably."
"You still wear his stuff?"
"It's comfortable."
His lips curl into a frown. An actual frown, not his usual over-the-top put-on. "You should lose them."
"Why?"
"If someone stops by, they'll see you lounging in your ex's boxers. That doesn't look good."
"How would they know they belonged to my ex?"
His eyes flit to the shorts. "Mine don't look like that."
"But how would anyone know?"
"I don't like it. You can wear whatever you want as long as it didn't belong to your ex."
"And you have nothing here left by other women?"
"I don't."
"What about your six-month fling?"
"It was a long time ago. A year after school," he says. "And it wasn't serious. She came over after work to fuck me and left when we were finished."
"Then why did she need clothes?"
"I'm a gentleman."
"You offered to eat her out in front of your brother too?"
"We went to dinner. Events. She was my date, the way you are now."
Not the way I am now. We're not having sex. But I don't want to say that out loud for some reason.
"She was a designer at a small firm. She knew expectations were different than they were in school, but she didn't know business. She didn't know people would judge her for wearing flat shoes and a sweater to dinner. In school, guys didn't care if a girl came from money. The scholarship students and the rich kids went to the same parties. Everyone wore sweat pants after all-nighters. There was judgment, but it was about how cute or funny someone was, not how much they spent on their shoes."
Liam spent six months fucking a down-to-earth artist from school.
Why does that bother me?
I don't think about his one-night stands. I don't ask myself if he's screwing models or sweet girl-next-door types.