Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
After all, as soon as the cash was deposited in my account, I went out and bought Gram a new inhaler, as well as ten refills. She’s able to use the medication whenever she likes now, and sleeps easier and breathes easier as a result. Our entire life seems lighter and less stressful because I decided to give my body to Mr. Wilshire. But now, should I do it again? The first time, I could rationalize it as a surprise. But this time, I’m going in with my eyes open.
Plus, if I’m honest with myself, I can’t move past the way I felt when I was with him. Every time I’ve closed my eyes this week, I see a pair of brilliant blue eyes looking back at me, making me crave all kinds of wicked things that I should definitely not be thinking of. It comes at the worst times too, for example when I’m manning the grill at Bad Burger. Or even more embarrassing, I’ll be daydreaming of how he made me scream while Grams is trying to tell me about her needlepoint, or the newest drama in her favorite TV show.
But we need the money, and no matter how I look at it, Bad Burger is never going to pay enough. As a result, I’ve decided to meet Peter again, and I should be dreading it, but instead, a frisson of excitement runs down my spine. When I look in the mirror, my eyes are sparkly and there’s a glow to my cheeks that wasn’t there before. It’s probably the “sex glow” that I’ve read about in romance novels, although the idea makes me snort.
But now, tonight’s the night. After trying on five different dresses, I’m back in the first one I put on. It’s nothing like the skimpy purple evening gown they had me wear at City Girls because I don’t want to give Peter the impression that’s how I actually present myself. Instead, this dress is simple and elegant, coming to a couple inches above my knees, with no scandalous cut-outs along my torso. It shows a touch of my cleavage, but there’s no chance of peek-a-boo slippage. And it’s a beautiful pastel yellow that looks great next to my chestnut hair and pale skin; or at least, I hope it does. I pair the cocktail dress with a pair of nude heels I’m putting on just as I hear a knock at the door.
“Want me to get it, honey?” Grams calls out from the bedroom.
“No, no, I got it!” I call, scampering to the door while trying not to break an ankle on the way. There’s no way I’m letting my grandmother meet Peter because God knows what Grams would say if she knew I was being paid to go out with men.
Before opening the door, I take a deep breath, straighten my dress, and then put on my best smile. But when I swing the slab open, a man I’ve never seen before is standing on the other side of the threshold in a black suit with a black cap. My smile falters.
“Hi,” I say.
The man bows slightly. “Hello, are you Miss Richardson? My name is Harry, and I’ll be your driver tonight.”
I stand there, gaping for a moment. A driver? Wow. When Margaux told me to be ready at seven, I automatically assumed that Peter would come by to pick me up. But I guess some men are so wealthy that they send chauffeurs for their dates. Strangely, I’m disappointed because I’d been hoping to see the handsome man, and some of my excitement dissipates. But it’s fine. It’s better this way actually, because now there’s no chance that Gram and Peter will interact.
Forcing my smile back into place, I grab my purse and step out into the hallway before following the man down to a black car idling at the curb. It looks out of place because my street is pretty grimy with trash floating about, whereas the car is shiny and obviously kept in tip top shape. Well, that’s Peter for you. We’re a contrast of opposites, but as I slide onto the buttery leather seats, I remind myself that he wants to see me. The billionaire is looking for a good time with the working girl, and it’s my job to deliver.
7
Angie
We drive for what feels like hours, but actually is probably only about two before entering the outer limits of Atlantic City. I gawk out the window. Atlantic City has its nice parts and its sketchier parts, but soon, the black car pulls onto a glamorous strip before turning into the semi-circular drive of a huge, white-colored hotel.
“What is this place?” I breathe.
The driver grins.
“It’s the Wilshire Hotel, Miss. Mr. Wilshire asked me to bring you here.”
I can barely speak because the hotel is absolutely breathtaking with its pale cream exterior, golden rotunda, and imposing double-height entryway. Well-dressed patrons move about their business, and immediately, I feel a bit out of place.