Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Dream on,” I snap.
“Oh, I haven’t shown you how bad I can get, Charlotte … and I won’t just tie you up to my bed,” he says, leaning forward as if to instill fear into me just by coming closer. “I’ll make you beg for it until you scream my name from pure pleasure.”
I swallow away the lump in my throat and cross my legs because it suddenly feels like I have no panties on even though I do. “That’ll never happen.”
“Of course, it will,” he answers. “Once you’re my wife, it’ll happen every … single … day.”
My legs clench together at the thought, my heart beating in my throat. I have to stop letting him get to me so much because he’s nothing but an evil bastard. I have to get rid of that image in my mind of that young boy who was once so nice to me. Where has that boy gone?
“And here I was, thinking you were such a nice guy way back when we first met. Guess I was wrong,” I say, holding my head up high.
“People change, Charlotte. You, of all people, should know that.” He raises his brow.
“I thought you were a better man,” I murmur.
His laughter dies off painfully slow. “So did I … once,” he muses.
“Let me guess, you blame me?” I raise a brow.
His eyes become thin slits. “Yes … and you know damn well why.”
Easton
7 Years Ago
“So you mix the two fluids, and then you add the dry ingredients. Got it?” my father says as he makes a smooth puree. I never understood any of this cooking stuff, and I’ve always been horrible in the kitchen, but I wanna learn. My father’s a great cook, and I envy his ability to quickly adapt. Whenever I’m behind a stove, I just burn everything. But I wanna make him happy.
I’m more adept at serving customers, and I think my father knows that because he always puts me on the waiter jobs whenever we work together. When the people who hire him approve, of course. Many people hire him because they all want to make use of his great cooking skills.
Me, I’m just glad I finished high school, but I have no clue what the hell I wanna do. My father keeps saying I should take over his business, and I suppose he’s right. It’d be a waste to let all his hard work slip when he retires. He built his business from the ground up over the years, and I’m proud of that. I’m just not sure if this is my thing.
“Do you get it or not?” he asks again.
Pulled from my train of thought, I mutter, “Ah, yeah, of course, I get it.”
“Tsk. Stop lying, Easton. You always do that.” He sighs. “Go serve them this.”
He puts three glasses filled with puree on a tray and shoos me out of the kitchen. He only works part-time for this restaurant, but it’s already pulled in some peculiar customers. Mostly rich people yearning to try out my father’s creations. He’s like a magician with food while I’m … just me. All I’m good at is flipping bottles and making some cool-looking drinks. But those things don’t make you money. You can’t build a career on drinks. Right?
I need to get my shit together and focus on what’s important; learning the best of my father’s skills so I can apply them when he retires and I take over his business. Working hard is the key.
With the tray in my hand and a clean cloth in the other, I march out the door and put on my best smile. However, the moment I notice who our guests are, my smile immediately disappears.
It’s her… that girl from that over-the-top wedding years ago.
Charlotte Davis.
I’d recognize her anywhere.
She has such distinct green eyes and a smile that anyone would be envious of. Not to mention the pink hair, which is hard to miss. As is her long, white dress … and tits that are tightly strapped inside.
Fuck. She grew up fast.
I still try to give her a courteous smile and let her know I recognize her, but she won’t even spare me one glance. All she does is stare out the window and ignore everyone around her. Fucking rude … but I guess that’s how these rich folks are.
“Compliments of the house,” I mutter as I set the tiny glasses in front of them.
She still won’t acknowledge me. It’s as if I don’t even exist. Has she forgotten about me already? Or is this because of her father?
I clearly remember the way he treated her at his wedding, how he slapped her in front of everyone and let her cry all by herself. When she ran off to the bathroom, I wanted to follow her, but then it hit me that the only reason it happened was because she’d talked to me.