Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
“Fifteen euro?” I ask, looking at the collection dubiously. “They can’t be real silver for fifteen euro.”
“Of course they’re not,” she says, plucking one from the display—a thick silver band with a few emeralds. “It’s costume.” She slips it onto her middle finger and inspects it, holding her hand out.
“It complements your platinum and diamond wedding rings perfectly,” I mumble, making her look at me tiredly. “Just saying.” I point to a display of beaded necklaces. “One of those will look amazing next to your sixty-grand diamond necklace too.” I notice the stall owner has narrowed eyes on me. I smile, feeling Ava nudge me in the side. “We’ll take them,” I say, rootling through my pocket and pulling out two twenty euro notes before pulling one of the necklaces off the stand. “The ring and the necklace.” I hand over the cash.
“It’s fifty,” he says.
Fifty? “Fine.” I dip back into my pocket and pull out another ten. “Here.”
“You’re supposed to haggle,” Ava whispers, coming in closer. “Fifty is too much.”
Of course it is. “Why would I stand there for five minutes haggling over a tenner?” I give her the necklace and get us moving. Christ, The Manor makes more than a tenner every second.
“Haggling is part of the fun. They never give their final price straight away.”
I smile and get her back into my side, locking her neck in the crook of my arm and tugging her close. “We’ll haggle when we get back to Paradise.”
“Haggle for what?” she asks, coy, peeking up at me.
I raise my brows. “You’re sex mad.”
“Oh, please.” She laughs, tucking her new purchases into her bag. “Says he who owned a sex manor.”
Is she joking about The Manor? I never thought I’d see the day. There’s just one thing, though. She said owned. I still own the sex manor. Naturally, Owen Cutler comes to mind, and I wonder if John is right. Will they come back with a sweeter, less insulting offer? It’s not about the money. I have enough money. So what is it about? Have I subconsciously concluded it’s priceless, therefore no amount of money could buy it? A defense tactic?
“Are you okay?” Ava asks, knocking me from my ponderings.
“Yeah.” I give her a reassuring smile. “Let’s look in here.” I nod to the next store and immediately feel Ava’s resistance.
“Oh no, Jesse, come on.”
“What?”
She frowns at the store front of Dior, her lips straight. “It’s not in my price range,” she says through her teeth, well aware of what response she’ll get.
I growl. “When will you ever get your head around us, not you and me?” Little Miss Independent needs to remember that she’s married, as well as who she’s married to. Me. Lord of The Sex Manor. Rich Lord of The Sex Manor. Her price range has shifted up the scale since she met me.
“It’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?” I need enlightening. “Do you want to go halves on everything?” I ask. “Like Lusso, cars, jets?”
She stares at me, annoyed, while I wait for her to come back at me. Nothing.
I sigh. What the hell are we doing arguing over this kind of stuff still? It’s old fucking news. “Baby, I’m very rich, and until now I’ve never had anyone to spoil.” Only myself with women and alcohol. And I was lavish with both, although the women didn’t cost me a penny. “Please humor me.” It’s like Harrods all over again. I jut my bottom lip out, give her wide, hopeful eyes. I know I’ve got her when her shoulders lower. She’s softening.
“You can buy me one thing,” she breathes. “Just one.”
I smile, chuffed. We both know one thing means limitless things. Like I said, Harrods again. “Come.” I collect her hand and tug her into Dior. “Mooch to your heart’s content,” I say, releasing her and lowering to a cream chair.
She eyes the rails, chewing her lip. “Can I help you?” an assistant asks.
“No, I’m just brow—”
“Yes, she needs help,” I say, blasting the assistant back with a megawatt smile. “The budget is really offensive.”
Ava’s mouth drops open, and the assistant suddenly looks curious, her eyes passing back and forth between us. Shit, did I just pull a Pretty Woman on my wife?
“Oh, she’s not a hooker,” I say, laughing nervously, wary of the incredulous expression on Ava’s face. “We’re married. I was just trying to say, you know, look after her. There’s no budget.”
“Oh my God,” Ava says, closing her eyes, hiding from the doubt on the assistant’s face.
“No, really,” I say, seeing the doubt too. “She’s pregnant. It’s twins.”
“Jesse?” Ava breathes.
“What?”
“Shut up.”
I recline back in my seat. Stung. “Okay,” I murmur, biting at my lip, watching the assistant flick uncertain eyes between us. But I do as I’m told and shut up. She’s my wife! God damn me.