Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
When she cries out my name like I’m her fucking salvation…
I swallow thickly. We need to be more careful.
I can’t ruin everything I’ve worked my ass off for.
Sitting in my office at the university, I consider how she’ll react. From the mahogany wood table to the leather couch and stacks of bookcases lining the walls with my law books, the room has an old-money aroma and atmosphere. My office is my sanctuary.
I text my friend Ace.
Ronan: Thanks for the heads-up.
And before I can put my phone away, he messages me about the gala next weekend.
Ace: You attending the charity event?
The message irks me to no fucking end. Every fucking year for as long as I can remember, I’ve attended as has Brook. I’m a fucking Wolf, after all. These events are among the few moments I even see my father anymore. This one, in particular, is charity-based and includes caviar and champagne.
Anyone who is anyone attends, writes a check, gets their photo taken on the red carpet for the tabloids, and rubs elbows with the other wealthy elite of New York.
I nearly write back to my lifelong friend why the fuck wouldn’t I?
But I know exactly why he suspects I won’t come. Public relations will recommend I lay low. Don’t say anything, don’t go anywhere. Don’t do anything notable after a scandal.
This, though?
What’s between Brook and me is not a fucking scandal. This article isn't shit. There are closed circles who saw the video, and it went nowhere. If we were engaged, it’s not a fucking sin that I enjoyed her cunt on my own fucking property.
Ronan: Of course I am.
I write back to Ace and ask him how the West Coast is treating him and if he’s returning for the event.
Ace: I’ll be there.
He then follows up, asking when the wedding will be.
I stifle a laugh and tell him what I told the group chat two weeks ago after the video and gossip made its way through the DMs and socials.
Ronan: We’re undecided at the moment.
Ronan: We haven’t started planning yet, but Brook might have some ideas. You should ask her at the event.
Lie after lie after lie.
I don’t fucking care at this point, though. It’s like fodder for a fucking gossiping magazine.
It was entertaining when I was younger, but now?
I don’t have time to check how I’m being judged. Or what they think of Brooklyn. They don’t know her like I do.
The thought resonates as Brook can be heard down the hall from my office. I glance at the clock. It’s past eight in the evening. Time got away from me, and I imagine she’s in need of attention. Especially if she saw the article.
Fuck all of them.
I hear her heels clicking first, and by the time I glance down at my phone and look up, I’m met with a gorgeous sight.
She’s wearing a colored shirt with a pleated skirt, looking every bit the part of the schoolgirl she’s trying to portray. Her outfit drives me crazy. It’s endlessly classic like an old movie that’s a timeless piece. Her blond hair is in low pigtails, hanging down the front of her shoulders, and when her eyes meet mine, she blushes just slightly.
“Was I drooling?” I ask her, tossing down my phone and not giving a damn that it vibrates with a message as it hits my desk.
She lets out a giggle and tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “A little.”
“You look beautiful tonight.”
“You want to make dinner with me?”
“You’re cooking?”
“Yeah, why do you look so shocked?” she feigns offense, and it’s comical.
“I didn’t know you knew how to use a stove.”
“We could order out… or I got one of those pizza kits.”
I smirk at her and debate going out. I debate being seen together. Then my gaze falls to her ring finger. I clear my throat, wanting to get this out of the way.
“Did you see the article?” I ask.
“I did. Aspen sent it to me.”
“And?”
“Is there any way your PI can figure out who took the photo?” She glances down, then back up at me. The photo got to her as well.
“More than likely not, but I’ve already emailed them the article, and they said they would get back to me.”
“You think it was my father or someone he paid?”
I hadn’t, actually.
“Perhaps,” I reply, wondering why she immediately assumes it was her father.
“I was thinking it was more than likely someone who was tipped off from the magazine.”
“Of all the scandals in the world, being engaged but not having a ring on isn’t even on the fucking list… I think this is more like a threat,” she says.
I study her expression. “Like someone saying I know it’s fake… and that’s what the scandal really is, you know?”
“Like your father?” I question, and she swallows thickly.
“You think he’s following me? He did it to my mother.”