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 slanted my head, realizing something. “You memorized the books I picked up at that indie shop?”
He finally broke his silence and faced me, answering my question between bouts of drilling a hole into my head with his frosty grays. “Nothing more than a byproduct of my superior memory. No need to revisit the past.” He pried the book from my fingers and wedged it into my mouth, right between my teeth. “Are you done?”
He didn’t wait for me to reply, returning to his laptop.
Spitting the book into my hand, I advanced toward him. “You should get into finance. I bet if you do something you enjoy, you would abandon your Mission Impossible: Getting Back at Daddy for Being a Meanie plan.”
“Great plan. Just neglect my entire career at Costa Indus—”
“It’s not a career. It’s a revenge quest. And it’s childish. It sucks the joy and soul out of you.” I waved the disrobed hardcover nestled in my palm, which was probably titled Generational Wealth: The Imperial History of Mediocre Nepo Babies or something equally snooze-worthy. “You love working with money. Life is too short to not do what you love.”
“Life is long enough that I might get to do both.”
The sudden urge to hug him seized me. “Oh, Romeo. You never know if your next breath is going to be your last. How foolish of you to not seize the moment.”
On the television mounted on the wall beside him, a news segment flashed across the screen. Hacker Attacks Licht Holdings, LLC. The rolling headline reported that an anonymous hacker had stolen and duly leaked key blueprints of a new technological weapon online, rendering the entire production worthless. This had my husband’s fingerprints all over it. The man wouldn’t rest until he had Madison by his throat.
Pouting, I squinted at the segment. “Wow. I didn’t know Zach meddles with hacking.”
Where was he when Sav taped me stuffing my bra with Choco pies at Emilie’s sleepover and leveraged the footage for my limited-edition Jimmy Choos?
Romeo didn’t lift his eyes from his screen, still typing. “He doesn’t.”
I didn’t really expect him to confide in me.
“So, why am I here?”
“I have a surprise for you.”
My heart immediately did jumping jacks, expanding and contracting at record speeds. Pressure built between my legs. “Can we do it on your desk? Oh! Can I go upstairs and dress like a sexy secretary?” Finally. An opportunity to use all those pencil skirts Cara had gotten me. And to think I’d almost taken them as Romeo’s subliminal message to get a job.
Those arctic-grays swung up from his screen, surprise and … was it delight? coloring them. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”
“Oh.”
“But good to know I didn’t scar you for life after this afternoon.”
The look he gave me told me he knew I’d faked those tears, did not find it amusing, and would punish me later for it. Hopefully, in the bedroom. Over his knees. As I wore the school girl uniform that I’d purchased in anticipation of this exact scenario.
I brushed his judgment off. Returning the hardcover, I parked my butt on the edge of his desk. “Okay. What do you have for me?”
He leaned back in his chair, gripped my outer thigh through my sweatpants, and ran his rough palm up my hip until he clutched my waist. “Since I was foolish enough to buy your tears today, I donated two buildings in our family name. One to Georgetown and the other to Johns Hopkins.”
I blinked, not yet comprehending. “Are you going to turn them into libraries for me? Seems a bit extreme to rob so many students of their degree—”
“You can now take your pick at which university you’d like to complete your college degree.” His upturned chin told me he thought he’d done me a favor.
I, on the other hand, wanted to slap him silly. What a horrid thing to do. Didn’t he know me at all? Maybe I’d gone overboard on giving him hell for plucking me midway through my degree.
Misinterpreting the surprise on my face for awe and gratitude, a wolfish smirk tugged at his delicious mouth. “I will take my thank you in the form of dick sucking, although I am partial to eating you out on the kitchen counter, too.”
I flung my hands in the air, groaning. “How could you do that to me?”
That wiped the smile off his face.
“You dropped out of Emory,” he pointed out, as if the detail had escaped me.
“Yes.” I stubbed an accusing finger into his chest. “And that was literally the only thing I looked forward to when you took me as a wife.”
“You don’t want a college degree?” The mask of indifference returned to his eyes.
“Of course not.” I shook my head. “Do you know anyone worth their salt who has one?” He stared at me in a way that suggested I’d spoken in an entirely different language. I sighed, listing the greatest minds of our generation, all degree-free. “Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg, Bill Gates, Jack Dorsey—”