Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I take risks for a living. I run a venture fund with my brother, and my entire career has been built on the foundation of gambling big in business. No reason to play it safe in my personal life now that I finally, maybe, have one again.
He peels away, and I resume my path to the piano, setting her clutch on top of the baby grand. “You left your glass slipper,” I say as I drink in the sight of her one more time.
To anyone else, she wouldn’t look well fucked. But the absence of her lipstick thrills me. The few hairs out of place excite me.
She tries to hide a smile. “You found it,” she says, then darts her gaze around the room like she’s checking for prying eyes.
I don’t want to ruin a thing for her, and really, there’s no need to bother with names or numbers right now. I’ll get them next time. Because I fully intend for there to be another night like this. I bend closer, then whisper in her ear, “I want you to come again. On me. I want to do very ungentlemanly things to you. The next party is in two weeks. I’ll be here, waiting in the library for you to take your break.”
She looks my way, her eyes unreadable, her lips tight. She says nothing as she maybe weighs the request.
Fine, so this is another challenge. I’m up for it. “The theme is Speakeasy. I’ll wear navy suspenders. I bet you have a flapper dress that’ll drive me wild.”
Her breath catches. That hitch sounds like a yes.
“Wear it,” I tell her. Her subtle gasp says she likes orders. “Without anything under your skirt.” Her eyes widen, and I savor the look as I pause, then add, “And I’ll take care of you completely.”
Her answer comes in a shudder and then a question. “Will you finish what you started tonight?”
It’s a wonder I don’t haul her back into the library right now. “You have my filthy word.”
“Let me get this straight. You built a tree house? An entire tree house in one weekend?” I arch a playfully skeptical brow my son’s way as we walk through Gramercy Park on Sunday afternoon.
“No. We did it all in one day. And it has the best stuff in it. It has a game room, and a lookout tower, and a lab,” Zach says.
And, evidently, ample space for one seven-year-old’s very active imagination. I wonder how big this tree house actually is. I’m guessing it’s only one regular-size tree house room, but it becomes whatever he wants it to be. I wonder, too, how important building a tree house is to him. I’m still learning all these details. I relish learning them.
“And what did you do in it?”
“Well, first we did some experiments in the lab. We made a volcano and watched it explode,” he says, and that sounds fun. Way more fun than the Saturday I spent reviewing the terms of the upcoming acquisition.
Though maybe not more fun than my Friday night. But I am not going to think of my goddess while I’m with my kid. Zach spent the weekend with his maternal grandparents just outside the city. Normally, or what passes for normal after less than a year spent together, he spends time with them in Scarsdale a few nights a week. But he starts science camp tomorrow in the city, so he’ll be with me for the next seven days. Since it’s five in the evening, I suppose I should have settled him into our home—our, that’s another strange thought, but a good strange thought—but when Zach begged me to take him swimming at Uncle Nick’s, it didn’t take much arm twisting to get me to say yes.
Sometimes I’m a pushover. I hope that’s not bad.
When my brother’s Art Deco building comes into view, Zach’s little feet rev up and he darts ahead of me, but I grab his hand before he takes off running down the block, powered by copious seven-year-old energy.
“Stay with me, dude,” I say.
“Okay, Dad,” he says, but it’s not a grumble–it’s an acceptance. Just like he’s accepted me easily as his father. Well, not when I first met him eight months ago. But soon after that, we got into a groove, and he started calling me Dad instead of Mr. Adams. Thank fuck. Only my grumpy dad is Mr. Adams. “Anyway, did you know Grandpa has a whole tool shed, with hammers and everything? He’s super handy.”
Well, considering I barely know the grandparents who’d been raising him for the last two years, I had no idea. “That’s cool.”
But does that mean I need a tool shed? I have a toolbox. Isn’t that enough? I can fix things. As if my firefighter dad would have let me leave his house without knowing how to hang a bookcase, spackle a hole, or repair a leaky faucet. “You know, your dad is pretty handy as well,” I say.