Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
"I don't need to tell you how scary it is." She takes another sip. Lets out a low sigh. "And how little time there is to consider that."
"Is he doing well?" I pretend as if I don't have all that information. Residents are underpaid, especially considering the cost of living. It shouldn't have been so easy to find a source, but it was.
"As well as he could. But…" She breaks off a piece of her scone. Places it on her tongue. For a moment, her eyes close and her features relax. Then she swallows and that pain is there. "He always liked you."
"He liked my parents' success."
"Yes, but that's the same thing. Good family, good manners, good future. All the traits necessary in a husband."
"Good father?"
Her eyes fill with surprise. "We never talked about that."
"We were young."
"I do wish things were different… I wish he could meet his grandchild."
My cock whines. Some primal urge to pass on my DNA. But the shit in my head—I can't go there. "Is that what you want?"
Her tension eases enough for her to shoot me a seriously look. "Pregnancy and child-rearing aren't included in our arrangement."
"No, those are perks."
She half-smiles. "I don't think you're getting past my IUD." Her cheeks flush. "I mean. We're not going to have sex. So it's a moot point."
"We'll see."
She clears her throat. "We're not."
"I am safe."
"You're what—"
"I don't have any STDS—"
"That's not…" She clears her throat. "We're not."
"Have you been tested?"
"Yes. And I'm safe. But that doesn't matter." Her blush deepens.
"Okay. We won't. But if we did… we wouldn't have to use a condom."
Her blush spreads to her chest. "I suppose that's true."
"Unless you feel differently."
"No. I prefer… without. But it doesn't matter. We're not." She clears her throat again. "It won't happen."
She takes another bite of her scone. Then another. She chews and swallows a little too fast. Coughs.
She's nervous. She's not convincing herself.
She won't. She can't. There are certain things in life we can't deny. Her desire for me is one of them.
I break off a piece of pastry. It tastes of flour, butter, fresh fruit. Homemade. Expensive. But then everything I eat tastes expensive and homemade. Key makes sure of that.
I'm pretty sure Lock hired her solely because her name was Key. He loves the pun.
I can't complain. She's a talented chef. She keeps the house spic and span. Stays during work hours. Leaves at all other times. Rarely offers explanation as to her whereabouts or inquires about mine.
She understands discretion.
Everyone I hire understands discretion. It's essential.
For a moment, I let my eyes close. I try to focus on the flaky scone. But it's no use. It doesn't interest me.
Food has never interested me. There's nothing appealing about different cuisines or flavors. Food is like clothing. A need I fill so I can move onto other things.
Once upon a time, I appreciated pairing wine and pasta, bourbon and steak, tequila and tacos.
With water, coffee, or tea? It's all the same.
Only, right now, watching Jasmine attempt to hide her desire behind her pastry—
I do appreciate it. The tart jam, the sweet tea, the flaky pastry. Something changes when I watch her. When I see her eyes fill with delight and hear that moan roll off her lips.
It's easier to experience little pleasures.
She finishes her last bite. Then her last sip of tea. She stares at the empty cup, willing it to fill.
Her eyes flit to mine. Her expression gets sheepish.
"I can make more," I offer.
"No." She pushes her cup forward. Rests her hands in her lap. "We're leaving soon. Or do you have a helicopter that will help us beat rush hour traffic?"
"What if I did?"
"Will they let you use the heliport at the hospital?"
"If I offer a big enough donation."
She just barely laughs. "They probably would." She looks around the apartment. "Where would you keep a helicopter?"
"At a heliport."
"Do you have one in the basement?"
"Why would a helicopter be in the basement?"
"Some secret Batcave thing?"
I can't help but laugh. "No basement helicopter. But I can have one brought to the helipad on thirtieth street."
She looks out the window, trying to place the location. It's only twenty-something blocks south, but it's not visible. We're facing west. From this angle, it's hard to see anything except the Hudson and New Jersey beyond it.
"You'll need to move closer to the window to see it."
"You won't really."
I wasn't planning on it, but she's right—"It's the fastest way."
"Will the hospital really…" She looks at me, trying to figure out if I'm serious or not. "You're kidding?"
I'm not sure. It's been a long time since I've joked with anyone. I try out a shrug.
She raises a brow, not really buying it. "The subway will be crowded in an hour."
This time, I arch a brow.
"What? Too rich for the subway?"
"If I am?"
"It takes longer to sit in traffic."