Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
The realization was a reality check. Like Joey had said, I was Cinderella, and midnight was fast approaching. I couldn’t afford—literally—to keep this charade up much longer.
“Welcome to the Malachite. May I take your luggage?” a uniformed porter inquired politely about items we didn’t have.
“Yes, please,” Bash said, gesturing to the driver. “Morris has them in the trunk. Thank you.”
He did? Bash had somehow acquired Sterling’s clothing? Was there any use in hoping the real Sterling was thin and vertically challenged?
“Certainly, Mr. Dayne,” the porter said, ushering us into the lobby. “Enjoy your stay, sir.”
The porter’s brief exchange with Bash faded to background noise as I stepped into the lobby’s sitting area. Whoever had designed this place was a master of their craft. They’d married a plush Victorian velvet settee with a rolled-arm Chesterfield and a marble-topped coffee table with inlaid mahogany end tables. On the walls, sturdy gilt-framed English landscapes were interspersed with black-and-white photos of the hotel’s famous guests, and dozens of informal tussie-mussie floral bouquets adorned every flat surface.
The style was perfect for the space—refined without being stuffy, exactly the look I tried to achieve in my own space back home on a much, much slimmer budget.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, moving toward the reception desk before I’d made a conscious decision to go there. I ran my hand over the sleek surface. “Is this rosewood?”
If the woman at the desk was surprised by my enthusiasm, she didn’t show it. “Yes, sir. I believe so.”
“My favorite,” I said reverently. “Did you know that rosewood actually has nothing to do with roses? It got its name because the wood smells so sweet. It’s actually my favorite kind of wood to refinish because it—”
Bash strolled up behind me. “Is everything alright?”
I straightened and tried to feign boredom. “What? Oh. Yes. Just… admiring the beautiful table. I might, uh, acquire one like it.” I sniffed. “Maybe more than one.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Really? Where would you put them?”
Shit. How was I supposed to know where Sterling would put giant tables when I’d never been to his home?
Had Bash been there? Would he know I was lying? This whole secret-identity thing was becoming annoying on a whole other level.
“Oh, you know.” I shrugged easily. “I might… buy a new house. Something small. Ten thousand square feet or so.”
“To display your tables.” Bash nodded solemnly. “Perfectly reasonable.”
“If you’d like, sir,” the friendly woman offered, “I can put you in touch with our designer.”
“Oh, no, I—” I began.
“Yes, please. That would be very helpful,” Bash cut in. “Whatever Mr. Chase wants, he gets.”
If only.
I rubbed my temple slightly as we waited for the woman to provide contact information that my helpful personal assistant stored in his phone. It was definitely time to come clean before I ended up on the hook for more than just a swanky hotel room.
Bash was unusually quiet as we made our way upstairs, and the silence was impossible to read. It wasn’t the same tension as on the ride to the hotel, but it for sure wasn’t the easy camaraderie of the polo match, and it set me further on edge.
Was he quiet because he was thinking about kissing me? Because he was hoping I wouldn’t kiss him? Because he knew I was impersonating a billionaire and he was planning to call the police?
“Rowe?” he called as we walked down a carpeted hallway. I turned around and saw that he’d stopped beside a heavy oak door, and I hadn’t even noticed. “Are you alright?”
“Mmm. Yes. Perfectly perfect!” I sang cheerily.
Just thinking about kissing. And prison. As one does.
“You sure?” Bash raised one eyebrow, his hand on the doorknob. “Nothing you want to share with me?”
“Nope! Noooope. I’m so perfectly perfect, in fact, this moment eclipses my previous most perfect day, which was the day I spent chatting with, um…” I cast my eyes around, trying to think of literally anyone, and spotted a black-and-white signed picture from Some Like It Hot. “Marilyn Monroe.”
What. The. Fuck?
Bash and I blinked at each other, and I immediately shook my head. “Not… not the Marilyn Monroe, obviously. I meant, um…” I scanned the hall again for inspiration and landed on an English landscape. “A… horse! A horse named Marilyn Monroe.”
I could practically feel my ball gown turning into rags and a pumpkin materializing at my feet.
“Your most perfect day,” Bash repeated with excessive patience. “Was a day you spent chatting with a horse named Marilyn Monroe.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it again. Then said, slowly and miserably, “W-would you believe it’s… one of my quirky billionaire eccentricities?”
“Right.” He pushed open the door. “Would you like a drink?”
“Desperately,” I croaked. I didn’t even care which of “Sterling’s favorite” concoctions he gave me.
He nodded and moved to the sleek kitchenette area of the suite while I glanced around at the spacious sitting room, looking for a place where I might quietly melt into a puddle of embarrassment on the thick carpet, but my attention was instantly snagged by the view. Clear glass windows lined one wall, showing off the neatly manicured lawn edged by a wilderness area dense with a mix of fir trees and hardwoods.