Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
I go to the bathroom, use the toilet and go to the mirror, checking the stubble situation. Shaving is becoming more and more of an effort, time wasted when I could be being more productive. “But she’s busy painting her nails,” I tell my reflection, opening the cupboard and pulling down my shaving kit before I flip on the bath taps, getting an even flow of hot and cold to make sure it’s tolerable once it’s full. I add some bubbles too.
While the bath runs, I strip down to my boxers and squirt some shaving gel in my hand, smoothing it all over my cheeks, chin, and neck, feeling the scratch of my bristle as I look into my eyes, turning a few things over in my mind. Will she say yes? What will I do if she doesn’t? What the hell do I think I could do? Force her? I laugh at myself, reaching for my razor, pouting. She’d be crazy to turn me down, right? Because while I’m uncertain about much, I know without a shadow of doubt that there is not a man who walks this planet, or ever will, who can or will love her as much as I love her. Okay, so my love comes with a few . . . quirks. But it’s rich, pure, and it’s real.
I take the razor to my cheek and pause, my eyes widening. “The ring,” I whisper to myself. The necklace too. “Fuck.” The razor hits the sink with a clang, and I’m out of the bathroom like a rocket, flying down the stairs, grabbing my keys and pelting out the front door. I hit the call button and, thank the elevator gods, it’s still on the top floor. The doors slide open and I hop in, walking circles around the small space, watching the floor counter tick down. The moment the gap is big enough, I squeeze through and run through the foyer.
“Hi, Clive,” I call as I pass, his startled eyes following me. I make it to my car, not for the first time today blowing out of my fucking arse. I haul the door open and crouch, feeling around under the seat for the bags, my face squished to the side of the leather. I yank them out, stand, and stall shutting the door. “What the . . .?” I reach forward and run my fingers through the white smears all over the seat, raising them to my nose. Then I realize. I shut the door and come face to face with myself in the window.
Bare chested. Boxers. Face full of shaving foam. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, just as a car drives in through the gates—another resident—who pulls up in the reserved space a few away from mine. He gets out. Looks me up and down, pulling his briefcase out behind him.
I nod a polite hello and turn on my bare feet, walking with less urgency back into Lusso. What a fucking day.
I make it back to the penthouse and have a quick listen for movement as I go to my study, hearing nothing. Once I’ve retrieved the key from its hiding place and opened the safe, I place the two boxes inside before locking it back up. Heading back to the bathroom, I turn off the taps and test the water, then take off my watch and boxers and sink into the bath, without the energy I need to now shave.
I close my eyes and breathe, taking the unexpected time to recharge and give my poor, overused muscles a break from moving. But I won’t go to sleep. I can’t drift off. Don’t go to sleep. Not alone in the tub.
I see long, dirty-blond hair on the sweetest, most angelic face. Chubby little hands and legs. Green eyes that match mine and Jake’s. I don’t think anything in this life will sound as good as the words Daddy coming from her little mouth. Will I get that again?
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
I inhale sharply and open my eyes. The water is tepid. Probably about the right temperature for Rosie. My heart clenches, and I scrub my wet hands down my face, sighing as I turn on the hot tap and let it warm up the water. The cycle isn’t letting up. It’s as if the universe deems it necessary and appropriate to ramp up the torture, maybe push me to the brink of despair, forcing some confessions out of me. It’s me against my past. My past is creeping ahead.
I reach for my watch, leaning out of the bath, stretching. “Jesus Christ.” Two hours have passed. I rest back as I hear a door close in the distance. “Finally,” I say to my darkness, washing the remnants of foam off my face. She appears, a glorious, flustered beauty. She gets out of her dress and lacy underwear, and I sink farther down into the water on a sigh. And then she’s naked, except for her perfectly painted nails.