Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Clifford.” Roman walks to him and pulls him in for a hug that seems to be filled with much more emotion than even the one he gave his mother and sisters at the hospital.
“I’m glad to have you back, kid.” Clifford pats his back, then lets him go, and his eyes come to me.
“Clifford, this is Elora. Elora—Clifford.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say softly, getting the feeling that it might not have mattered to Roman what his sisters, mom, and father thought about me, but this man’s opinion is important to him.
“You too.” His eyes are soft on me. “I ordered you two lunch when he said you were coming from the hospital and that you haven’t eaten much today. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” I tell him, and his look fills with approval before he glances at Roman, then back at me.
“I know he doesn’t cook, but if you want me to order any groceries, just let me know.”
“Sure.” I shift on my feet, and he smiles.
“All right, you two go eat. I’m taking off.” He looks at Roman. “Unless you wanted me to stick around?”
“No, go ahead and tell Sade I said hi.”
“I will. She was happy to hear you were back.” He claps Roman on the shoulder, then grabs a sling bag I didn’t notice by the door before giving the two of us a smile and leaving.
When the door closes behind him, Roman turns his attention to me. “Do you want a tour or food first?”
“Food,” I say, and he holds his hand out toward me. I take it without hesitation and follow him to the kitchen, where there’s a bag with containers inside waiting on the counter. “Clifford didn’t want to join us?”
“No, his daughter, a doctor, has him on a strict diet, so he brings his own food with him every day.” He looks at me and smiles. “She doesn’t know about the twenty dollars in pastries he buys once a week, and I haven’t told her because it’s only once a week.”
“How long have you known him?” I ask when he pulls out a stool for me.
“He started driving for my family when I was three. When I started making my own money, I tripled his pay and brought him on to run my house. Most days, he just hangs out in front of the TV in the loft, but it gets him out of his house and gives him something to do since he refused to just accept the money I first attempted to give him.”
“So, he’s like family to you.”
“Yeah.” He meets my gaze, and then asks, “Do you want a turkey sandwich or a Reuben?”
“Which one do you want?”
“Whichever one you don’t.”
“I’ll have the turkey then.” I roll my eyes, and he passes me the container before walking to what I think is a cabinet until he opens it. I see a huge fridge with only a few bottles of water and a small lunch bag inside. “So, you really don’t cook?”
“No.” He walks back over to me, holding two bottles of water. “We had a chef growing up, and when I moved into my own place, I was working so much that I just did takeout whenever I was hungry. That kind of stuck over the years.”
“What about if you want a snack in the middle of the night?”
“This is the city that never sleeps, and Clifford keeps the pantry stocked with stuff.” He takes a seat next to me and gives me his full attention, the look on his face making me feel uneasy. “About what Ricardo said and how my mom treated you—”
“It’s okay.” I should have known that he would bring that up.
“It’s not, and it won’t happen again,” he says firmly, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck. “After the talk I had with my mom, she gets how important you are to me and is going to make that information known to Ricardo.”
“All right,” I agree. My chest feels funny, like my heart just got too big for the space behind my rib cage. “You never told me that—”
“Ricardo isn’t my dad?”
I nod, and he lets out a breath.
“He’s the only father I’ve ever known. I knew he treated me differently, but I thought it was because I was the oldest. It wasn’t until I turned fourteen that I found out the truth.”
“Which is?” I ask because he has a tendency to keep everything to himself.
“My mom was seeing a guy her parents didn’t approve of and wound up pregnant. She was going to run off and marry him, but before that could happen, he died in a motorcycle accident. At that time, she was two months pregnant with me. My grandfather—who was old school in his mentality—immediately found her a replacement so she wouldn’t embarrass them. Enter Ricardo.” His eyes drop to my lips, and I know my mouth is gaping in disbelief. “Arranged marriages among the wealthy happen pretty often—a lot more often than people think.”