Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“You look like boiled shite. Like you haven’t slept a wink in days.” His eyes narrow, and he pulls an unhappy face. “Are you blushing?” he asks incredulously.
“Don’t be an asshole,” I retort, grabbing the bags. But, yes, I think I am.
“Get fucked yourself,” he mutters as I pass, and he slaps my back.
“Good evening, Mr. DeWitt.” The doorman reaches for the bags as the bronzed glass doors slide almost silently open.
“Thanks, Pete. I’ve got them.”
“As you prefer, Mr. DeWitt. Madam.” He inclines his head in the direction of Mila, who murmurs a quiet hello.
“You live in a hotel?” she asks once we’re out of earshot.
I shake my head. It looks like a fancy hotel, and it does have links to the nearby Mandarin for room service and shit, but no. “This is my apartment building.” Which is just a stone’s throw from Harrods and Buckingham Palace.
Matt and Oliver heaped shit on me for buying this place off plan, comparing my tastes to the oil sheikhs I’m often wining and dining on behalf of Maven. But the joke’s on them, because I could sell this place tomorrow for double what I paid.
We cross the lobby, the low tasteful hum of music overlaid by the slap-slap of Mila’s Converse and the trundle of her trolley bag. I try to see the place from her eyes. The onyx marble floors, the plush velvet couches, and the concierge desk and the welcoming smiles of the staff stationed there. Chandeliers like art installations; lush greenery; bronzed mirrors reflecting our path to the elevators; the doors that open before we reach them. The car that moves without inputting our destination.
“A place so posh you don’t even have to push the buttons?” The reflection of her smile is unsteady.
“It’s a private car. One destination. I bought the place as an investment,” I add. Weird. I’ve never sought to explain my life or my decisions to anyone before now.
The door opens into the small hallway. Shiny floors, more plants, and another couch, as though a short elevator journey might be fatiguing. I input the code at the ebony front door, and it opens.
“After you,” I say, ignoring the insane urge to carry my bride across the threshold of what I hoped would be her new home. Rather than the place she has to stay to save her business.
“Oh, my days.” She makes a beeline for the wall of windows. The lamps are on in the living room, and though it’s dark outside, you can still see the tops of the trees. It’s like looking over a field of darkened broccoli in the middle of the city. “Is that Hyde Park?” Her voice sounds doubtful, her eyes widening as her gaze turns my way, and I nod. “Wow. Those are some views.” Her smile barely holds before she turns away again.
“Yeah.” I stifle a sigh. “A view.” Fuck me, that ass was made for leggings. My eyes slide over the flare of her hips. In my mind’s eyes, I press my palm to the sinuous arch at her lower back as I bend her forward. Palms against the glass. “What did you tell them for?”
She swings around, her smile nowhere to be seen as her gaze skims over the room, the color palette a repeat of downstairs. Amber and bronze and dark wood. Opulent accents and tactile soft furnishings. All chosen by a decorator.
“I couldn’t lie to them,” she says, linking her hands at her front. “And I couldn’t make you lie to them. Not for me.”
“You didn’t make me,” I answer wearily. “I choose to.” For you.
“I just panicked, all right? Evie is so kind and so nice, I just couldn’t do it!”
“Well, they won’t tell anyone, so no need to worry on that front. As far as the rest of London is concerned, we’re still married. We’re still in love. That is, if you want to stick with the plan.”
“Do you think they might think, or wonder, if they’ve been paying me to sleep with you?”
Despite her worried tone, my own words hit the air with violence. “Do you think I need to pay women to sleep with me?”
“I can’t be the first woman who took offense to your . . .” Her eyes flick to my lips before she drags them away. “Your mustache.”
Her eyes widen as I round the sofa setting, before I pause at the polished walnut cocktail cabinet, pulling out my wallet and flipping it to the top. “You mean ‘half-grown Chia Pet’?” I slide her a provocative look over my shoulder as I open the small door.
“Sorry. I told you I say inappropriate things when I’m—”
“Are you sorry for saying it or sorry I shaved it off?”
“What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. Not really.” I reach for the tantalus, which once belonged to my grandfather, and select the decanter of single malt. “Other than you didn’t get to ride it.”