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 worried I might make a foolish decision?” Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, she glances at me playfully. “Another foolish decision, even?”
“Like get a killer hangover?” I purposely misunderstand her again as I take a seat on the lounger next to hers. I don’t lounge, though. I face her. Feed on the sight of her from behind my sunglasses.
“That would be the perfect end to our wedding.”
“Civil ceremony,” I supply, watching her master a grin. “Who said I was dangerous?” Like I need to ask as I set the glasses on the side table between us.
“Who’d you think?”
What a pussy this Tod is.
“Did he tell you I threatened him?” Deniability is in how violence was mostly implied.
“He said you’d use his head as a receptacle to serve overpriced cocktails if I didn’t…”
“See me?”
“Well, I saw something,” she demurs. The corner of her mouth twists as though to stop herself from smiling.
“Was it stars?” Reaching for the champagne, I twist off the wire basket. Her eyes are dark as she watches, not that she’ll admit to enjoying the experience.
“Maybe it was your alter ego.”
“I’ll take the compliment.” Something tells me I won’t be on the receiving end very often.
“Do.” She gives an airy wave. “I give them where they’re due.” She sounds so uncomfortable but I don’t think that can be true.
“I give them too.” I twist the cork. It pops. “Lavender Deveraux, you have such a sweet fucking pussy.”
“And you have a dirty mouth,” she retorts, not withholding her smile this time. “But it’s Whittington. I won’t be taking your last name. We’re not living in the Victorian era.”
“What’ll that cost me?” I begin to pour the champagne into one of the flutes, ignoring any other sentiment that might be poking at me.
“Not everything is up for sale,” she retorts, irritated.
I pause and put the glass down. “There isn’t a thing in this world that isn’t for sale. It’s just a question of discovering the price. You don’t have to feel bad about that.”
“I don’t feel bad,” she retorts. “Why should I feel bad? What are you trying to insinuate?”
“Calm down.” I set the bottle down, realizing I’ve touched a raw nerve.
“I am perfectly calm,” she utters mulishly.
“Lavender.” I place my hand on her thigh, like it’s something I’ve done a thousand times before. Her skin is soft and slick, the scent of her sunscreen heady. I want to grip. Tighten it. Hear her gasp, then sigh as I slide my hand higher and—
Fucking focus.
Inhaling, I start again. “That you shouldn’t feel bad was exactly my point. I didn’t leave you a great deal of choice.”
Whatever storm was brewing seems to dissipate, heat and tension seeping out of her limbs. “What I don’t get,” she begins quietly, “is why you would offer me money to marry you in the first place. Carrot and the stick? I imagine a stick is usually enough to make people do what you want.”
“That’s true.” How did this conversation veer off course so quickly? “But you didn’t deserve the stick.” And I didn’t want to use it. I’ll need her understanding in the coming weeks and months, along with her support. Fear works, sure. Intimidation and threats, but it would’ve been a stupid move.
“I’m sure I didn’t deserve any of this,” she says airily.
“That’s why I’m making it worth your while. And I’ll say again, what’ll it take for you to take my name?”
It shouldn’t be important—it shouldn’t even be a fucking conversation. Yet here we are, bargaining. Playing as she rolls her eyes, she answers me like I’m a small child.
“Fine. I’ll hyphenate it. But I’m not changing my passport and stuff. It’s hardly worth it for twelve months.”
“Lavender Whittington-Deveraux,” I purr, setting the bottle down, my other hand still resting on her silky thigh.
“You do realize you’ve just made forms very difficult to fill out. There are barely enough little squares for my regular name.”
“But I’m so appreciative that you’ll suffer on my behalf.”
She gives a theatrical sigh. “You’d better be.”
“Let me show you just how appreciative,” I purr, tightening my grip a touch. “You only have to say the word.”
“I think you’re trying to distract me with your sexy voice and flirty eyes.”
“You think I have a sexy voice?” I ask… using my sexiest intonation.
“Stop that and answer my question.”
“Hmm.” I swipe my thumb against her inner thigh. “Remind me, which question was that?”
“Tod,” she says, pressing her thighs together as though that might stop me. “Did you threaten him with a stick?”
My jaw tightens, the idiot’s name pissing on my mood. “His head is empty enough to serve cocktails in. But no, he wasn’t at risk.”
“He might be from me.” This she murmurs quietly.
“That’s your prerogative, my vengeful wife.”
“Maybe it’s you I should be angry with, given you’re the one who put him in that position in the first place.”