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)
Crunch time, I think, as I pick up my cup and bring the fragrant steam to my nose.
“Well, the thing is, Daisy. I have found the right woman to marry.”
The little girl’s spoon freezes midair.
“And I wanted you to be the first to know that I got married at the weekend.”
“Oh.” She lowers the spoon and, swapping it for a napkin, dabs her ice cream-free lips as though stalling for time. She brings the napkin to her lap, her fingers turning white as she begins to twist it. “Is she very nice, your new wife?”
My heart aches at her quiet question.
“I think so.” Something warm blooms inside me as his eyes seek mine. “She’s exactly what I need,” he adds smokily.
“Does that mean I have to go and live with him? With Daddy, I mean.”
“No, lovely girl.” I know it’s not my place, but I can’t seem to stop myself from sliding my arm around her small shoulders. “Nothing is changing, I promise. You’ll still have Uncle Raif here, like always. I won’t get in the way of anything.”
“Oh.” Her head drops. I think she’s looking at my Doc Marten boots. Her head lifts slowly, taking in my jeans, my cardigan, and then my eyes. Her head tilts like a puppy trying to work out a new training trick. Something flickers in her expression; a decision made, it seems. She turns to Raif and makes me laugh so loud as she says, “So who did you marry?”
19
LAVENDER
Poor, sweet, little Daisy.
I wonder if she’s disappointed to have a stepmother who isn’t at all hoochie. Not that I would threaten her with watery soup to find out. For starters, the poor little thing seems far too concerned with doing the right thing.
But as the saying goes, from the mouths of babes comes truth and wisdom. I think I can now safely assume how Raif ordinarily likes his women. And I suppose this might go some way to explaining why me.
If I’m not his type, things are less likely to be complicated, obviously.
I cross the bottom of Raif’s imposing bed and the luxurious velvet bench that runs along with it (if this were my bedroom, the thing would be piled high with clothes and books and plates with toast crumbs), still looking for the laundry hamper that wasn’t in his swanky bathroom.
His room is more like a suite of rooms, the vibe one of masculinity, and the design pallet stark with an overlay of muted tones. The bedroom includes a sitting area, then there’s a bathroom as big as my living room, and a closet that looks like a menswear boutique. I had a little snoop, of course, as soon as the opportunity arose. So many bespoke suits and shirts, all color-coded. Designer sneakers and handmade Italian shoes. And watches. So many watches. What is it with men and their wrist wear? They only have two wrists, so what’s with the compulsion?
I also snuck a peak in his underwear drawers, given I haven’t seen his underwear drawers yet. Tom Ford boxer briefs. Black, naturally. And some traditional boxer shorts, the maker’s mark including a royal warrant.
Back to the laundry hamper hunt. It’s not in here, either, as far as I can tell as I swing around, scanning the place.
Looks like that bench might not be ornamental after all.
“Damn.” I scratch my thumbnail over a drop of sauce on the T-shirt I’ve just taken off because, as it turned out, I did manage to eat dinner. It would’ve been a crime not to, the yummy scents filling the kitchen as Sam began to cook.
There was so much food. Too much really, but I gave it my best shot. He’d served the sumptuous meal in a room just beyond the kitchen, overlooking the huge garden. Another anomaly for a house in central London.
Raif had referred to the space as the breakfast nook as in… the breakfast nook next door to the solarium. Turn right at the vestibule, and if you come to a green door, you’ve gone too far, because that room is a boudoir. I’m not being totally facetious. It’s just that kind of house. Five floors, two of them subterranean, including a multi-car garage, a second cellar, a high-tech-looking gym, and a twenty-foot swimming pool.
I don’t think I could’ve eaten in the dining room anyway. I would’ve been too busy staring at the Bridget Riley piece above the fireplace or the intricate hanging sculptures by Ruth Aswa. I can sort of see why Raif didn’t pick up anything when he visited the gallery. My pieces, while lovingly curated, are mostly from unestablished artists. In other words, we’re not in the same price range.
I chuckle softly. As though anyone looking at us would think anything different.
Today, I’d slipped back into my university grunge era while Raif looked like he’d just stepped from his super yacht. Or supercar, as the case was.