Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
He looks ready to laugh, then shrugs. “Or make a pillow fort, might be more appropriate. God knows my mom has enough throw pillows to smother everyone in Boise to death—no chalk though, fresh out of that.”
“And here I thought you’d still be playing with it. My bad.” I joke, trying to get a jab in.
He stills and locks eyes with me. “Are you going to be an annoying little problem, Belle?”
“That depends.” I take a brave step forward. “Are you going to be a rich asshole?”
“A truce then.” He holds out his hand. “Stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours, smile when you’re in public, don’t make the family look bad, and remember we aren’t friends at school. I already have those, don’t need one more.” He eyes me up and down. “And we really need to do something about your wardrobe.”
I hug my chest. “Kind of hard when you’ve been bouncing from house to house.”
He sighs and looks heavenward like he’s about to make a choice he can’t come back from, then drops my bag in the middle of the floor and drags me into his bedroom.
Panic seizes my chest until he releases my hand and walks over to a huge indoor closet that is bigger than my first room I shared with multiple foster siblings after my mom’s death.
“What size are you?” he yells, then, “Nevermind.”
He comes walking out with shopping bags—two Prada bags, one from Louis Vuitton, another from Gucci, and a box of Yeezy’s.
I’m sure my jaw drops to the floor in elegant fashion when he shoves them into my hands, putting the box on top. “W-what is all of this?”
Is he giving me his clothes?
“Had a girlfriend with expensive taste; the day before Valentine’s Day, found out she cheated on me with Xander—who I would definitely stay away from since he’s the worst—and decided not to give her any of her presents, never had a girl yell at me so much. She looks to be about your size, then again, I only slept with her twice and haven’t even seen you out of this giant t-shirt and loose ripped jeans, but for now, they’ll do.”
I’m still standing there when he holds up a hand and walks away again.
What is with this guy?
I both love and hate him a bit.
So confusing.
Is this how all rich kids are?
He walks into a large bathroom that has a jacuzzi tub I want to sleep in or would sleep in, to be honest, then comes out with a Sephora bag. “Forgot that I grabbed her some makeup and her favorite weird skincare stuff.”
He adds that on top of the box of shoes and then slowly ushers me out of his room across the hall and into mine. He grabs the bag from the floor and drops it inside the guest room.
Tears fill my eyes when I look around.
The bed is a King.
It looks so fluffy I want to nap.
I have my own bathroom, the only time I’ve had my own bathroom—ever. I almost drop everything in my hands when Ambrose very carefully takes them from me, sets them on the bed, and then starts to leave.
“Wait!” I lick my lips nervously. “T-thank you.”
He stares at my mouth for a minute before looking away. “It’s nothing, really.”
“It is to me,” I say quietly.
Tension swirls between us.
I’ve never had a guy look at me the way he is, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Anyway…” He knocks on my wall. “Dinner’s at seven, don’t be late, wear one of the dresses.”
“Why a dress?” I take a step forward.
“Because it’s a Tuesday, Belle, and on Tuesdays and every other day that ends in the word day… it’s formal, just in case someone important stops by and wants to snap a shot of the perfects.”
“The perfects?” I ask.
“What people call us.” His face falls. “See you at seven.”
Chapter Three
Ambrose
She’s really pretty.
Like the kind of pretty that has me almost uncomfortable during family dinner that I’m almost embarrassed about it. I feel like shit too, because I know that while I’m angry, I’m reacting to her in a weirdly physical way—it feels wrong. She came with a trash bag.
A trash bag.
I really am an asshole.
She put on some makeup.
Her hair has soft waves touching past her shoulders in a near-perfect fit, kissing them more like it. The black Prada dress has material wrapped around her right shoulder; the rest is strapless, leather, and she looks like a goddess.
Her eyes are wide as she stares down at the table at all the food as it gets served to us. Protein heavy for me, vegan for Mom, and both for Dad.
One of our maids pours some red wine into everyone’s glasses, half for the underagers.
And so, the awkward small talk begins while I try not to look at her.