Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“You’re worried I might climb out the back window?” I demand as he swings open the garden gate.
“You live on the third floor.”
“How do you know—” Scratch that. “I see you’ve done your homework.” Come to think of it, I didn’t even give him my address before dropping off into snoozeville.
“I have. I told you I need the right kind of wife.”
“Then you’ve made a mistake.” I send him a look. “You obviously don’t know I’ve done much more foolish things. Like forget my purse,” I add with wide, innocent eyes as I turn to face him. “Oops!”
“This purse, you mean,” he says, pulling it out of the interior pocket of his suit jacket.
“Oh. Excellent,” I reply, my tone flat.
I whip out my key and stick it in the front door, trying very hard to ignore his low chuckle.
I make my way across the hall without waiting to see if he follows, then trip lightly up the staircase. Unlocking my blue-painted door, I stride inside.
My home is at the very top of a large Victorian gothic terrace in leafy Fulham. It’s essentially attic rooms that once upon a time would’ve housed the domestic staff of the family living downstairs. Rejigged and renovated, the space now includes two bedrooms, two tiny bathrooms, and an open-plan kitchen-living area. It’s small. Bijou, and I love it dearly. Mostly because I don’t have to share one inch of my space with my million siblings.
“Go sit down.” I gesture in the direction of the living space. “Go on, you’re making the place look untidy.” What he is making is the place look small. Intimate.
“You don’t want me to help you pack?” A smile lurks in the corner of Raif’s mouth, and his gaze flicks in the direction of the doors leading off the hallway.
“I think I can manage,” I retort with asperity. “Anyway, this wedding, whatever the destination, doesn’t suit me. I have to be back at the gallery on Monday.”
“We’ll be back in London tomorrow.”
So much for that tactic.
“Pack light. You can travel in what you’re wearing.”
Those feline eyes flick over me, and I resist a shiver.
“I’m not schlepping through the airport in this,” I say, sliding my hand over the silk. That his eyes follow the motion give me a little thrill.
“We’ll drive straight to the door of the jet. Put a sweater over your dress if you’re concerned.”
“I’m not concerned. I’m fashionable,” I say, breezing past him. Private jets and fancy cars. Good looking, fit, and hella skilled. What the heck does he need a pretend wife for?
“I won’t be a minute,” I say, turning at my bedroom door. “I promise, I won’t run away,” I add when he doesn’t immediately move.
“You wouldn’t get very far.”
There’s no threat in his reply, but I find myself shivering all the same.
Kicking my bedroom door closed behind me, I quickly thumb a text to Tod.
You’d better drag yourself out of whoever’s bed you’re in and get your skinny bum to the gallery this morning. You’re opening.
I throw my phone to the bed before I swipe it up again.
FYI, you are very far from my favorite person right now. You’d better pray something changes between now and the next time I see you.
8 SHARP!!! is my final text.
We might get a lot of tire kickers on Saturday, but we’ve also made some of our biggest sales.
I slide the straps from my shoulders and step out of my dress, annoyed when my phone doesn’t ping immediately with an apologetic text.
“Twat.”
“What was that?” Raif calls from the living room. I forgot the walls are like bloody rice paper.
“I said, what kind of car was that?” I pull open my underwear drawer.
“The one outside?”
I pause and almost add, No, the one in your pocket. But then I remember the male species is wired very differently. Like, with faults. They might only be able to seat their arse in one car at any given time, but those with the cash to do so like to have options.
“Yes, that one.”
“A McLaren.”
“Aren’t they like, super expensive?” I ask, rifling through the drawer’s contents. “Two-hundred thousand new, I heard.”
“You like cars?”
“No. One of my brothers was talking about it last week.” Brin was wanking on and on about the model he’s thinking of buying, like he’s the billionaire of the family and not Whit.
“Was that Whit?”
“No,” I call back, my brows furrowing.
“Brin?”
“Nope.”
“One of the other two, then.”
“Bloody hell,” I mutter, not for his ears. He’s done his homework.
“But this one isn’t new,” Raif calls.
“Oh.” Finding the bra I want, I drop it on top of the dresser. “I suppose that makes more sense.” Spending two hundred grand on a car is crazy pants. “My dad was always an advocate of buying used. He said the minute a car passes from the showroom floor, you’re out of pocket.” The familiar ache is swift to rise at the thought of my lovely, long-gone father.