Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
I froze by the kitchen’s entrance, barefoot. “I’m sure it’ll happen for me one day.”
“Yes. You’ll break him at some point, and he’ll give you a divorce. I’m sure of it.”
But that would mean no more life-altering, earth-shattering sex with my ridiculously hot husband. No more orgasms beneath his talented tongue. No babies with his gray eyes. No. I didn’t want a divorce. Not at all.
After I hung up and finished my third dinner for the day (Hettie’s bistek tagalog and fried lumpia), I retreated to my room to read my Henry Plotkin books, which Romeo had returned from exile. Time for a reread ahead of the fourteenth and final book in the series.
“Shortbread.” Romeo’s arrogant voice snarled from the jaws of his study. “Come inside.”
You mean … just like you did today?
Giggling to myself, I followed his instructions. He sat behind a mahogany desk, working on his laptop, a library of literally every unreadable book I’d ever come across behind him.
“Yes?” I bent down to tug my funny socks up over my Minnie Mouse sweatpants.
“Is it Halloween?”
“No.”
“Then why are you dressed as a toddler?”
I swaggered deeper into the office and flashed him a sunny smile, knowing those, in particular, soured his mood. “Comfort first, right?”
“Wrong.” His fingers skated over the keyboard. “Comfort is what mediocre people strive for once they realize the currency of success is hard work.”
Naturally, I gravitated to his library and noticed the bottom row of fifteen or so books. Linen hardcovers, absent of dust jackets and any indication of the contents within.
I fingered one, teasing it out of its slot before poking it back in. “Are these for decoration?”
He didn’t even turn to see what I’d referred to. “No.”
“How can you tell which book is which?”
“By opening them.”
“Is this some weird aesthetic thing rich people do to keep paupers guessing what they read?”
“You are a rich person.”
“Yeah, but I’m an abnormal rich person.”
“You’re an abnormal person. Period. And no, this is not some weird aesthetic thing rich people do to keep paupers guessing what they read.”
“Then … the bookseller sold them like this? That should be criminal.”
“They came with dust jackets.”
My lips parted, appalled at the idea of trashing them. “What happened to them?”
“They’re now on the books I gave you.”
“What books?”
Surely, he didn’t mean those books.
“His Filthy Touch. A Lover’s Thrust. Blindfolded by my Professor. Dominated by Two Alien Alphas. Must I continue? I lose a brain cell for every second we discuss them.”
I tried to remember if I’d taken the time to peek past the dust jackets and see what the books beneath actually were. I hadn’t. Oops.
“Oh. Those books.”
Romeo’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Those books. Have you finished them?”
Oh, they’re finished, all right …
“You could say that …”
“What happened?”
I yawned, covering my hand over my mouth to obscure my next words. “I might have burned them.”
“You burned them.” His jaw ticked. The slightest movement. If I weren’t paying attention to every painstaking detail of my husband, I wouldn’t have noticed it.
I toyed with the edge of my shirt, staring down at Minnie Mouse. Figured it was too late to apologize. Bygones and all. “Yeah.” I waved a hand. “Happened ages ago. No need to revisit the past.”
“While we’re at it, we may as well ban history courses. K-through-12 education, too.”
“Mm-hmm. We should.” I nodded fast, beaming at Romeo. “Worked super well for women in the past.”
And nope. Still couldn’t bring myself to apologize. Why was I like this? Better question—why was he like this?
I boiled in his potent silence, fanning my cheeks with an unidentifiable linen hardcover. Romeo continued to type on his laptop. He paused for a moment, unsheathed his old tin can, and fetched a white rectangle from within, popping it into his mouth. His gum.
I wanted to inch closer. Dive into his past. Sneak a peek of the container, which I noticed for the first time did possess a single flaw. A tiny dent in the corner that marred the otherwise smooth matte surface.
Instead, I made a show of continuing my perusal of his shelves. My fingers brushed each naked spine. The books, I had no problem apologizing to. In fact, I would’ve held a candlelight vigil, too, if I didn’t think it’d be poor taste, considering how their jackets had met their untimely demises. I pressed my palms together and offered a silent prayer to each and every one whose skin I’d burnt to a crisp in the bonfire.
Please, Lord, wash me of my sins and find these books a better home in the afterlife. Preferably with someone with taste. The Vast History of Financial Statements? Really?
On the bright side, I’d finally discovered Romeo’s addictions, other than gum and my misery—money. His entire bookshelf consisted of rows upon rows of finance books. It struck me as odd. I could’ve sworn, based on my stellar snooping skills, that he’d studied engineering during undergrad and focused on Entrepreneurial Management for his MBA.