Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
I bristle. That’s not true. And even though I’m supposed to be toasting Flip’s health and his marriage right now, I open my mouth to argue. Is that really what you think of me?
But a different question comes out instead. “Do you think my hair is too floofy?”
Flip looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
“Never mind.”
We sip our scotch. I’m still sore about Flip asking me to leave Mark alone, though. I know I’m not doing anything that man doesn’t want me to do.
And beg me to do, damn it.
Flip couldn’t possibly understand the inner workings of Mark Banks. My roomie told me to my face that he isn’t looking for more than a hookup. It’s going to be fine.
I sneak another look at my watch. Eleven-thirty. I can still make the most of tonight. For maybe the only time ever, I’m the one itching to put the fork in a night out with my bud.
Guess there’s a first time for everything.
28
I DON’T SNORE
MARK
Out the window, the night sky is blurry. Silence engulfs me as I glance around the unfamiliar room. Yawning, I rub a hand along my chin, then hunt for my glasses.
What day is it?
What the hell time is it?
Spotting my glasses on a marble coffee table, I grab them and put them on.
I’m in the tennis-court-size den of the mansion, and all the lights are out. One glance at my clothes tells me I conked out on the cushy couch.
In my defense, your honor, this couch is mighty comfy.
Except for . . . this book under my thigh. I reach for it—one of Rosie’s early reader books, about a sporty girl.
Like the kid who’s snoring softly next to me.
How long have we been sleeping?
No idea.
I stand and scoop her into my arms. She murmurs something, then drops her head to my chest. I carry her up the stairs and to her room, next to Bridget’s. My ex’s door is ajar but it’s dark in there. Bridget loves her sleep, and will get plenty more of it when I take off with Rosie Saturday night and my ex does . . . whatever.
But . . . so what?
It suddenly strikes me that I’m tired of being tired of Bridget. I’ve got my kid, and my work, and my life in New York, and Bridget can just do her thing. I don’t care so much anymore.
And that feels good.
I lower Rosie onto the twin bed. She doesn’t wake up once, so I don’t bother to tell her to put on jammies or brush her teeth.
Leaning down, I kiss her forehead. “Love you, cupcake,” I whisper, then leave, padding barefoot along the hall and back down the stairs.
The sleek modern clock on the wall ticks past eleven-thirty. Everyone’s asleep, but my thoughts veer to one person only.
Is Asher in the guest house, alone and waiting for me? Going for a dip, hoping I’ll join him? Drinking a whiskey poolside, looking ridiculously sexy as he waits for me to ravage him?
I’ll take all of the above, thank you very much.
But when I slide open the glass doors and walk past the water, the pool is dark and quiet. My gaze flicks to the chair by the potted palm this time. A white-hot image flashes before me of what he did to me on that chair last night, but that’s chased by other images too. Yesterday, walking around the city so comfortably together. This morning in bed, talking like it’s just what we do. Even playing in the pool with my kid.
Which is stupid. Just stupid to think of.
Best to focus on sex.
Maybe he’s waiting in bed for me.
That possibility puts a spring in my step, but when I open the door to the guest house, it’s empty and dark. I try to shrug away the disappointment.
It’s fine.
I’m here for my sister anyway, and today, I helped her with wedding stuff. That’s the point of this trip.
After I brush my teeth, I head to my room. A pang in my chest twinges as I pass Asher’s room, which is so, so dumb.
It’s just the sex I’m missing.
That’s all.
In my room, I get undressed, then slide into bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. After I unlock it, my text notifications rain down on the screen.
Brett: God, will you please come back from vacay because I’m sick of getting picked off by Ryan at Chase.
Better news: Options got clobbered for a minute and I covered your short in September volatility. You’re welcome. And even better news (for me), knight takes rook.
But seriously, I hope you’re having fun. If you’re not, go find some fun. Get a sunburn. Get laid. Or I will never share my list of the best secret spots in the city for pork buns ever again.