Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Are you coming with us to Napa?” I sit at the kitchen island, and munch on a carrot.
* * *
“No.” Drew’s answer, as typical, barely tells me anything.
* * *
“He’s not really in danger, is he?”
* * *
Drew regards me carefully from his place by the fridge. “What do you mean?”
* * *
“You’re supposed to be his security, right?” I hop off the stool and walk to the fridge, pulling open the door and searching for some bit of yumminess that Beth might have overlooked.
* * *
“Among other things.”
* * *
“So if he’s in danger, then who’s protecting him right now?”
* * *
“Mark's with him.”
* * *
I roll my eyes. “I know that Mark is with him, but Mark isn’t exactly intimidating.” Mark’s the type you’d call when you wanted to dump a body, and needed a well-researched, well-thought-out plan. Put him in a dangerous situation, and I’m pretty sure he’d pull out a calculator, toss it at your head, and run.
* * *
“Are you done eating? You should return to the guesthouse.”
* * *
“Stop calling it the guesthouse.” I push aside a gallon of carrot juice, making a face at the soy milk behind it.
* * *
“Okay, time to return to your house.”
* * *
“Why can’t I stay here? Why do I have to be locked away in there all day?” I grab a bottled water and shut the fridge, twisting off the cap as I prop one hip against the island. “Nathan works in development, right? Hotels, apartment complexes?”
* * *
He says nothing, and my boredom takes the opportunity to run free. “Development isn’t dangerous. And half the time, he doesn’t even lock the front door.”
* * *
“Your point?”
* * *
I shrug, taking a swig. “Just seems like you are expendable.”
* * *
“Let me worry about that.”
* * *
“And what’s with making me sleep outside? Why can’t I hang out in the house during the day? Or sleep in his room?”
* * *
“Do you want to sleep with him?”
* * *
His tone gives me pause, and I set the bottle on the counter. “It’d be nice not to sleep alone.”
* * *
I intended the comment to be lighthearted, a flippant response that would be ignored. But he says nothing, and an awkward silence stretches between us. I pick at the label on my water. “How long have you worked for Nathan?”
* * *
He crosses his arms and shoots me a pained look. “Why the sudden questions?”
* * *
I crunch happily on a carrot in a way that I know he will find exasperating. “Answer one of them, and I’ll go on my little way like a good girl.”
* * *
“Which one?”
* * *
I grab a fresh handful of orange sticks. “Is he really in any danger?”
* * *
“Wealthy men are always in danger. Now, move.” He ends the order with some form of a snarl, emphasizing the last word and unfolding his arms, as if he’ll force me from the kitchen.
* * *
I laugh, sticking a new carrot into my mouth and bumping my hip against him as I round the island and head to my prison. “Fine … but your answer sucked. I’ll get you with a better question tomorrow.”
* * *
He glowers at me, a look that would have terrified me a month ago. Now, it only causes me to beam, the brief bit of human interaction well worth the sexy death stare.
* * *
I push open the heavy glass door and step onto the sunlight-filled deck.
CHAPTER 21
I need a hobby. The marital agreement states that I can have one, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my wifely duties. Nathan’s schedule seems to reliably keep him out of the house from nine to five, eight hours open for whatever random hobby I should decide to engage in. It shouldn’t be that difficult for me to find a hobby that will fit during that window. The agreement also states that I may have friends, but unless I stalk strangers at Starbucks, it’s going to be pretty hard to find those.
* * *
Last weekend, we flew to Napa. Nathan was mobbed the moment our plane landed, men and women alike flocking to his side, pulling on his arm, whispering into his ear, and laughing at his jokes. I had been so worried, about our stiff exchanges, but he transformed before my eyes, an easy grin stretching across his face, a casual and affable elegance his new façade. I was shocked, my jaw literally dropping as I stared at the mystery who was anyone but my husband.
* * *
He maintained this exterior for three days straight, entertaining scores of society blue bloods, telling stories I have never heard, and bidding on extravagant auction items, his arm draped lovingly around my shoulder. He planted soft kisses on my neck in the presence of others and ran his fingers lightly over my arm as if he couldn’t touch me enough. I saw the glances, the swoons from other women. She is so lucky. They are so in love. They didn’t know the truth. That when he would lean in and whisper in my ear his words were anything but romantic. Stop fidgeting. Uncross your legs. Sit up straight. I behaved, I smiled, I made the proper social gestures, and said the correct things. I beamed at Nathan, laughed at his stories, and accepted his loving gestures as if they were normal. And in the evenings, when the door to our two-bedroom suite closed, he would reward me. On the soft bed, against the wall, in the shower. On my back, on my knees, standing, and with his mouth. When you subtracted his whispered orders, the separate bedrooms, and the false exteriors, it was the best weekend of my life.