Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Was it Deidre or Darlene? It definitely had a D in it.
“Desiree.” Fuck. It was definitely not that.
“Nice name,” Emmett said skeptically, rolling it off his tongue. “Desiree.”
Okay—second mental note: tell whatsherface to change her name if she wants that visa.
Also—was I really entertaining the idea of marrying this wacko for real now? Apparently I was, because she was the kind of woman to definitely tell Emmett we weren’t married if he ever found her.
“Desiree what?” he pressed.
“Are you going to ask for her social security and Wikipedia page next?” In lieu of answers, I decided offense was the best defense. “I’m not going to violate her privacy so you can get your rocks off.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to do a thorough check to ensure Desiree has a nice, proper, real last name. And very soon.”
Knowing you, you’ll put a PI on my ass the minute I walk out of here.
“She exists,” I ground out, pissed now. “So that won’t be a problem.”
“Well. Let me know when you have a date in mind. For the wedding, I mean. We need to talk through your vacation days.”
“Hmm. Vacation days. Sure, yeah.” I closed the door behind me before making a beeline to the elevator. “See you later. Unfortunately,” I muttered.
The suing-me part wasn’t what I was worried about—he could have the money. It was the fact I’d be outed as a billionaire in front of the whole world that bothered me. My life would never be the same again. Every interaction, every hookup, every transaction would be laced with the unknown of what people’s motivations were with me. No. I’d gone this far without revealing my filthy rich identity. I wasn’t going to lose my tranquil reality because of Emmett’s power trip.
Which meant I had an engagement to propose to a complete stranger.
It was either that or going to Alaska.
And I sure as hell wasn’t going to Alaska.
CHAPTER FOUR
RIGGS
I spent the subway ride to the WNT headquarters not hyperventilating into some guy’s McDonald’s bag, a big win in my book.
I wasn’t like my friends Christian and Arsène, who had a perpetual boner for messy conflicts. Those two could pick up a fight in an empty room. Antipathy was their passion.
I got off at Thirty-Fourth Street and entered the main reception of WNT. A bubbly receptionist greeted me. “Welcome to WNT News Corp.! How can I help you?”
You can kill me now. I’ll pay you extra if you make it quick.
“I’m here for . . .” Delia? Davina? Delaney? “Gretchen Beatty’s assistant.”
“Which one? She has six.”
Six? G was more high maintenance than Disney World. But that didn’t surprise me.
“The British one who looks like a sexy nun.” I leaned a hip against the counter, jerking my foot impatiently.
“A sexy nun?” The woman tilted her head, clearly confused. I sometimes forgot how most people didn’t draw their analogies and cultural references from Pornhub.
“You know, dresses conservatively, with heels and all that jazz. She’s got nice . . .” I cupped my hands to my chest in a weighing-watermelons gesture. Oops. I was doing it again. Being overtly me. “Uh, hair.”
It wasn’t a lie. I remembered she had shiny hair. Because I wondered what it’d look like wrapped around my fist.
“What color is it?” The receptionist narrowed her eyes.
“Huh?” Flashbacks of the Brit’s impressive rack shot through my mind. She really was a bombshell, and she worked the whole chic European look like nobody’s business. Shame about that personality.
“Her hair, sir.”
“Oh. Brown. An interesting shade of brown. Like . . .” Don’t say crap. “Mud.”
Though I was in no danger of snagging Pablo Neruda’s spot as the king of quixotic poetry, Enola Holmes here put the pieces together.
“That’d be Daphne.” Daphne! I knew it was a D name. “I’ll buzz you up. Who should I say is looking for her?”
The guy who fucked her boss in front of her, then proceeded to offend her. Twice. Then rejected her marriage proposal. Here’s a photo of my dick, in case she needs a refresher.
“Riggs.” I cleared my throat. “Riggs Bates.”
I waited for the receptionist to connect with Daphne on the switchboard. After a quick call, I was sent to the thirtieth floor. A woman who waited at the elevator and introduced herself as Gretchen’s fourth assistant led me to Daphne’s office. That was where I found the woman I was about to make my fiancée painting a traffic cone with red finger paint while standing inside a Crocs shoebox. She was screaming into a phone pinned between her shoulder and ear. “I’m well bloody aware, Charlie! No need for the weekly fatherly pep talks. I wish I could tell Gretchen to shove her attitude up her ars—”
Who was Charlie? Didn’t matter. It gave me inexplicable pleasure to see her like this. I knew her kind. She was obsessed with her precious hair, her expensive shoes, and her designer dresses. Her idea of art was probably contouring her face.