Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I lock the door, drawing a deep inhale of the lavender bouquet I picked up earlier in the week, then get moving on my to-do list. I need to fix my hair, since it’s flat as a pancake under this wig, and take a quick shower since, well, playing piano for three hours makes me a little hot and sweaty.
I’m not going to let him undress me unless I feel good about what’s under the clothes.
After unzipping my dress and kicking off my shoes, I turn my phone back on, too, just in case Finn texted with info about the car he’s sending. Guys I dated in college never sent town cars. They barely sent texts longer than sup or hey.
And yes, the newest text is from him. But I freeze before I open it, dread prickling at me. What if he’s canceling? He probably changed his mind when he returned home, and the weight of his choice hit him. Guilt is a powerful downer. Expecting disappointment, I click open the text.
Finn: Do you like champagne, whiskey, wine, or something without liquor? Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.
I grin stupidly. Anything, I want to say. But that’s a boring answer. So far, Finn seems to think I’m sexy. He likes when I’m naughty. I like being this girl with him. And there’s one drink that lets him know I’m so ready.
Jules: Just water, Mr. Adams. I’m very, very thirsty.
Seconds later, a reply lands.
Finn: I’m hungry. I know what I want to eat. I thought about it all day at the office when you were bringing me contracts to sign, bending over my desk.
I gasp. He’s doing it. He’s really doing it. And so am I.
Jules: Funny, I thought you were thinking about my tits then.
Finn: Watch that dirty mouth, or I’ll bend you over the table.
Jules: Like you wanted to bend me over your desk earlier today. Or maybe you wanted to spread me out on your desk?
Finn: Make that starving. You’d better get here very, very soon. I’m not a patient man, Miss Marley.
Jules: But I’ll be worth it.
With a delicious sigh, I clutch my phone. I want to linger in this heady moment where I’m aching for him. Only there’s too much to do, so I set my phone down on the bureau, but a text from my father from earlier blinks up at me.
Like a pair of eyes, watching.
He’d hate me even more if he knew what I was about to do. I spin around and ignore it, yanking off my wig and the wig cap. A minute later, I’m under the stream of water, scrubbing, washing, rinsing.
I’m out of the shower in no time, lotioning up, then swiping on lipstick and mascara.
Nothing more.
I grab a canvas bag and toss in a pair of panties, a tank top and leggings, then a toothbrush. He invited me to spend the night, so presumably, he wants to kiss me in the morning, but morning breath is real. I don’t like being dirty (except the good kind of dirty), and there’s no way I’m asking a guy I don’t know to borrow a toothbrush.
It’s just best to be prepared.
I want to be prepared to play our roles, too, so I dress the part, zipping up a black pencil skirt, buttoning a tight white blouse, and sliding into heels.
I twist up my hair, and even though I still have my contacts in, I grab a pair of costume glasses. They feel like armor.
I check the time. The car will be here in ten minutes, so I unlock my safe and take out my journal, reading the quote on the card. Then I answer the question Willa asked me every night when we were kids. What did you do today? Every night, I told her. I still tell her, but now I do it in a veiled way because I have to.
Stars on my ankle. A fist against the wall. Jay Gatsby, obsessed with me. A late-night invitation. A dangerous choice.
I close the book, lock it up, then grab my phone. A new message flashes on the screen.
Finn: You smell incredible.
I read it twice because that’s what it takes to absorb his meaning. Heat washes over me. What the hell am I getting myself into with this dominating, dirty man?
No idea, but I can’t wait to find out.
But as I race down the steps of my building, I keep thinking about my dad’s text. I should open it. I should write back. He’ll worry I’m dead.
I stop on the landing, closing my eyes briefly, breathing past the flash of terrible images from years ago.
I open my eyes and click on the text. He sent me an article about the best mutual funds, along with a reminder: We need to talk about your retirement planning soon. You started an account, right?