Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Faith replies with: Why don’t I bring you dinner?
I reach for the sandwich I’ve had sitting on my desk since noon, toss it in the trash, and type: Chinese? Because she was craving it before bed last night.
Perfect, she replies. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.
I think of her spending her money to pick up that meal, and I dial Charlie, arranging to add Faith to my fast cash account and ordering her a credit card. Once I’m done, I buzz Rita. “Come.”
She appears in my doorway almost instantly. “Come? That doesn’t work when my husband says it, and it won’t work when you say it.”
“I said come, and you’re here,” I say. “It worked.”
“Only because I have work for you.” She marches to my desk and again sets a stack of documents in front of me. “Sign. Read. Sign. Call about this and be the bastard that you are. Sign.”
“I need the top three realtors you suggest and the top three remodeling services.”
She gives me a keen look. “Are you buying a new house?”
“Faith and I are going to buy a new house.”
“And she hasn’t agreed; thus, you want to make her feel in control by her choosing the contacts you work with.”
“You know me a little too well sometimes.”
“I’ll get you the names.” She starts to turn and seems to change her mind. “A jeweler takes quite some time to customize a ring—perhaps six to eight weeks. Shall I line up a few for you to interview?”
A ring. A wedding. I wait for the hesitation, the wall, the pushback, but there is none. “Yes. Line them up.”
“Price range?”
“Whatever it takes to get perfection.”
Her lips curve. “I’ll let them know.”
A ring, I think. A wife. Holy fuck. This is happening. I’m going to make it happen.
I send Rita home at six. Faith sends me a text at six thirty on her way to pick up the food. At seven, I toss down my pen, pressing fingers to my eyes, finally done with a brief I need by morning. The elevator dings, and Faith appears in the doorway, giving me a shy smile, her pink lipstick the same pale shade as her Allure Gallery T-shirt, which she’s paired with faded torn jeans.
“Hungry?” she asks.
“Starving,” I say, standing up and closing the space between us to take the bags. “For you, but I’ll settle for what’s in the bags until we get home.”
“Home,” she says, biting her lip. “I can’t get used to that.”
“You will,” I promise, motioning with my head and leading her to the small round conference table to the left of my desk. Once we’ve settled into our seats, takeout containers in front of us, I reach into my jacket and set a small sheet of paper on the table. “These are the names and numbers of the top realtors and remodelers in town. I want you to pick the ones you want to work with.”
“You really want to do this, don’t you?”
“I do. Don’t you?”
She hesitates, but a smile hints at her lips. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to look.”
Baby steps, I think, but I don’t heed that warning. I reach into my pocket again and set a bank card on the table.
She stiffens instantly. “What is that?”
“You’re with me now, sweetheart. All the way. No half way. I had your social from the legal filings I did. I had you added to my account and ordered you your own card. That’s good for two hundred, so you can get pretty much whatever you want when you want it.”
She blanches. “Two hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Nick—”
“I know you’re going to fight me on this.”
“I still owe you money.”
“You don’t owe me money, but we won’t beat that up. Humor me. Put it in your purse. Have it with you in case you need it.” I pause. “Please.”
“Please? Nick fucking Rogers just said please?”
“I have very good manners, remember?”
She scowls. “No. You have horrible manners.” Her voice and expression soften. “I’ll keep it, but I’m—”
I lean in and kiss her. “Going to fight me on this. I know. Put it in your purse.” She nods and unzips her purse where it rests at her hip, then sticks it inside a zipper pocket.
“Now,” I say. “Tell me about the L.A. show. Did you hear anything more about your work?”
“What the fuck, Nick?”
At the sound of Abel’s voice, alarm bells go off in my head. I’m on my feet in an instant. “Abel—”
He appears in the center of the office. “You sold the fucking club and didn’t give me a chance to buy it? Nick? Where the hell—”
“Abel,” I bite out, and holy fuck I’m going to murder him.
Faith stands up at the same moment that Abel rotates to look at us, his eyes going wide. “Oh shit. Nick, man—”
“Get out,” I all but growl at him, stalking toward him as he turns to leave, shutting the door behind him.