Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“He said I can’t be with anybody else. Just him. It was so intense like he would hurt Freddie just for making me laugh.”
“Whoa, jealous, much?”
Her response is justified, but it still annoys me. Fine, he was being jealous, but I kind of liked it. Heck, more than kind of. It’s funny. If she told me about a guy she was dating acting the same way, I’d one hundred per freaking cent tell her the same thing. He’s being jealous, red flags, all that jazz, but it seems somehow fitting with Thomas.
Maybe it’s the dreams that came to me last night while lying in the most comfortable bed in the universe. I didn’t check if it was officially the most comfortable, but if there were a prize, I’d nominate it. As I drifted into that in-between space, half asleep and half awake, I imagined Thomas holding a big towel. He was kneeling as he swept our children, wet from the pool, into his bear-hug embrace. Then he was in the kitchen, humming as we prepared dinner together.
Another flash had him walking up the aisle toward me. I saw his hand cradling my belly with our children giggling and playing in the yard. “Do you really think we can have another one?”
In the fantasy, he kissed me on the cheek. “I could have a hundred children with you and still want more.”
“Ami?” Emma says, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Yeah, sorry. I was in the clouds.”
“I said to be careful, okay? You don’t know what this guy wants with you, and it sounds like he’s getting super possessive, super early.”
“There’s nothing necessarily wrong with that.”
I try to keep my voice casual, nonconfrontational, but I can’t completely mask my anger. It’s even worse because the anger is unjustified, and Emma is totally justified in warning me.
“Huh?” she says.
“Being possessive early. If both people want it, then I don’t see the problem.”
“You want him to be possessive?” When I don’t answer, she says, “And anyway, you don’t know what he wants.”
“Hopefully, that’s about to change. My driver’s here. I’ve got to go. Love ya, Ems.”
“Love ya.”
I hang up, tucking my phone away, and then wait for my driver. I couldn’t keep talking to Emma about this situation. I’m tempted to tell her she doesn’t understand, but that doesn’t mean much when I don’t understand, either.
Soon, my driver is here. Sitting in the back of the chauffeured car, I watch the city of London roll by, distorted with the hammering rain. My heartbeat hammers relentlessly as I remind myself that I deserve answers. He can’t keep stringing me along, and if he tries to turn things intimate again, I’ll have to resist him… somehow.
The driver stops outside a large apartment building. There are black cars parked in a row opposite it, all of them with tinted windows.
“Ma’am,” the driver says. “It’s the first car at the top of the row.”
I’m about to ask what he means when the door opens, and Thomas steps out. He doesn’t seem to care about the rain as he walks across the street, the downpour making the silver in his hair glisten more than usual. When he reaches the car, he opens his umbrella and opens my door for me.
“Thanks,” I say as he offers me his hand and helps me to my feet, “but you could’ve opened the umbrella sooner. You’re soaked!”
“Hey, that’s my line.”
My head rushes when he leans down and kisses me on the cheek in public. It’s quite a statement for a billionaire, but more than that, it’s the sheer heat and casual intimacy. Answers, I remind myself. Romance can come later.
“It’s a touch rainy for the walk,” he says, leading me across the street, “but I thought we could take Loki someplace else. One of his favorite places.”
“Okay,” I say, “but are we going to get a chance to talk?”
“Of course.” He leads me to the back of the car, gesturing inside. “Be ready. He might want doggie kisses.”
“What do you…”
Mean, I’m about to say, but then I get my answer. As soon as I climb into the car, the Jack Russell is on me, the black-and-tan dog slithering across the footwell, propping his paws on my legs, and smiling up at me.
“Hello, boy,” I say, scratching him behind the ear. “Aren’t you just the cutest?”
He yaps happily, then licks my hand.
“He likes you,” Thomas says warmly, climbing into the seat next to me.
“He’s so cute. How old is he? Or is that on a need-to-know basis, too?”
Thomas surprises me with a loud laugh, and then I’m laughing with him, both of us caught up in the absurdity of the situation. Weirdly, we can laugh at it, but I’m starting to learn that we’re weird with how we’re able to interact with each other. We can flit between iciness and intimacy, jokes and anger, then right back to warmth again.