Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Sure enough, it’s her who comes around the corner, pausing in the doorway. She waits for me to look her way, but I continue rubbing in the facial cream I found in the drawer into my cheeks.
“You have a vanity,” she deadpans.
“Yes. I do.” Leaning closer to the mirror, I run the pad of my middle finger over my brows. “Two in fact, one at my family home and one at Greyson Manor. Both full of my things.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have taken all of your things when you went home for your…visit.” She says visit as if it’s a two-syllable word, chastising me without directly calling me out for the lie it really was.
She assumes I would deny the truth, so I do the opposite. “Had I planned to come back here at all, I wouldn’t have.”
Her brows snap together so fast I could almost smile. “So you admit, you intended to run from your obligation?”
“Intended?” I face her fully now. “I did run, did I not?”
Her spine straightens then, gaze narrowing. She wants to say something else, but decides against it, instead looking back to the near empty countertop. “If you require something you need, only ask.”
That has me looking her way with a blonde brow raised.
The woman lifts her chin. “I can bring an iPad in, and we can order you whatever you wish.”
Scoffing, I shake my head and move past her. “Online shopping is not shopping. It’s a result of boredom and procrastination.”
“Then it should suit you well.” Our eyes meet once again. “Are you not bored?” she asks, not waiting for a reply. “Are you not procrastinating?”
“For what?”
“The inevitable.”
I glare but she’s done being chatty, already moving to the closet and coming back with another outfit I didn’t pick out but won’t admit I don’t hate.
When she pairs the silky wide-leg white pants and purple sleeveless bodysuit with a matching pair of purple pumps, she scowls my way, letting them hang from her fingertips a moment longer than necessary before setting them at the foot of the bed.
“Mr. Fikile expects you at the table by eight sharp.”
“And does Mr. Fikile plan on being home by then?”
The woman’s mouth twitches, but she spins on her heel and walks out.
Flipping off the empty space, I finish getting ready because what the fuck else is there to do?
As promised, the woman is back when she said she would be and once again, she glares down at my flats.
Shaking her head, she spins and we walk the same way we did yesterday, right into the dining room, only this time, Enzo isn’t here.
I swallow the bitterness that coats my tongue and take the seat closest to me, as far away from where I decide is his usual seat. I’ve just settled onto the cushion when the same server from yesterday appears.
He stiffens at my placement, but pivots quickly enough, delivering my cappuccino and all the fixings, just as before.
“Thank you,” I tell him before he has a chance to run away, but he pretends as if I hadn’t spoken, leaving me alone in the dining room.
I’m tempted to cross my arms like a brat, but the rich aroma of Columbian espresso beans is too compelling for that. If nothing else in this place is enjoyable, you better believe I’ll relish my drink when it is.
So, I squirt a ton of whipped cream and drown it in freshly made caramel. I’ve just brought it to my mouth, the cream pressing softly against my upper lip, when laughter floats from the door across the room.
Female laughter.
My spine shoots straight, and I freeze. Surely, he won’t—
The door opens, scratch that, Enzo pushes the door open, holding it with one strong, long arm and then the gorgeous brunette from yesterday steps through.
She’s all dolled up once again, hair curled and pinned, heels high and skirt higher.
Enzo, however, wears what he did yesterday, nothing new about his outfit other than a few wrinkles. The woman steps through, Enzo’s gaze shooting my way the moment he starts to follow.
He halts where he stands, the door slapping him in the back, but it doesn’t set him off-kilter.
No, even the giant, heavy mahogany doors kiss his ass, bouncing off him like he’s the one made of hundred-year-old, solid hardwood.
Those hazel eyes rage, but his face remains impressively blank.
I lift my cup again, taking a sip, before flicking my tongue over the cream I know my lips are now painted with. It’s a hazard of my drink choice and well worth it.
The vein in Enzo’s jaw tics. It’s one single time and the only break in his armor I spot before forcing myself to look away.
“Miss Revenaw.” The woman seeks my attention.
Out of spite, I make her wait four solid seconds before giving her what she wants, and imagine that. The exact moment our gazes meet, is when she realizes her skirt needs straightening. It’s an obvious and pathetic attempt to draw assumptions to my mind.