Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Allen: $500,000.
I meet Rem’s eyes. “A decent amount.”
He sighs. “A decent amount can be anything, you fuck. How many figures we talking? Four, five, six?”
“Six.”
“Damn, bro. I should’ve invested in real estate when you told me to.”
I grin, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t think I’d dump it all in the market right now,” he says, switching from teasing brother to sage investor. If anyone knows the stock market, it’s Rem. “How much risk do you want to take with it?”
I shrug. “Moderate.”
“All right, I’ll look at a few things and email you some options I think will give the most return on your money,” he updates, but then he pauses, meets my eyes for a long moment, and laughs. “And to think, you went through all that college to become an engineer, and here you are…asking me about fucking stocks.”
“I still do engineer shit.”
“When exactly?”
“Whenever I go to my office.”
He laughs. “So, almost never.”
I just shrug and take a bite of my burger. He can think what he wants about my work life. I don’t really give a shit.
Truth be told, for the past six years, my passive income from real estate and investments has made it so I don’t have to work full time as an engineer, but I spent so much time building the company that it aggravates me too much when I think about walking away from it all. As long as I’m able, I’ll keep doing both.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to find three new messages from Daisy. The first two are pictures of a lamp and a couch, followed by What about these? Should I bring them?
We’ve been playing this game for the past forty-eight hours, and I know it at least started as a way for her to breach the text message barrier formed by where we left off—with me telling her to use her fingers like my cock to stroke herself.
Her sending me pictures of random things in her apartment and me telling her she doesn’t need to bring them is a way to keep the lines of communication and evidentiary support for USCIS open and flowing without having to address the dripping wet pussy in the room.
Me: No.
Daisy: Are you sure? Because I could easily hire movers to transport from LA to New York…
A weird combination of a sigh and laugh escapes my lips.
“Who is that?” Rem asks, and I look up to find him staring at me curiously, but I just shake my head and type out a response.
Me: My apartment has furniture, babe.
“Dude. Seriously. Who are you texting?” he questions. “I sure as shit know your fucking accountant wouldn’t make you smile like that.”
“When he’s messaging me with high-profit numbers? He sure as fuck does.”
“Whatever,” Rem retorts. “This is a different kind of smile, and you know it. Who’s the girl?”
“My wife,” I answer simply with a flicker of eye contact.
“Oh yeah. Sure, Flynn. You’re just sitting here, texting your fucking wife,” he says, rolls his eyes, and laughs as if I just said the most absurd thing on the planet. And then, he just goes back to eating his burger as if I didn’t just tell him I have a wife.
Sure, it’s probably because he thinks I was joking, but this is me we’re talking about, not fucking Ty or Jude.
I don’t bullshit. Ever.
My phone vibrates again, and I check the screen to find another message from Daisy.
Daisy: Besides clothes and shoes, I feel like I’m hardly bringing anything, Flynn. What about dishes? Do you have enough dishes? Or glasses? How about silverware? No one ever has enough silverware.
I know her well enough by now to understand that she’s going to send me about six or seven additional rambling text messages before she’s finished.
So, I give her time to ask all the questions her little heart desires and go back to eating lunch with my brother. You know, the first person I’ve actually told that I’m married, and he doesn’t believe me.
Pretty sure he’s going to believe you soon enough when Daisy is living in your apartment…
The silence is marred only by our chewing as my phone buzzes frantically from its spot on the table, and Remy’s eyes narrow slightly as he watches it. When it nearly falls to the floor from shaking itself so much, I pick it back up and scroll through what she’s sent me.
Daisy: Okay, so I’m guessing by your lack of enthusiastic agreement, that’s a no to cutlery.
Daisy: How about bath towels? I have these really great towels I got from Pottery Barn, and I swear they’re the softest towels you’ll ever feel against your skin. I know guys act like they don’t care about shit like that, but let’s be real, no one wants to dry off with sandpaper.