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)
Maybe it was Emmett who’d sent her to ask. Hell, maybe he’d sent her to tempt me, just for funsies.
“It’s very real,” I heard myself say. “It’s the realest thing I’ve ever achieved, so do yourself a favor and never ask again.”
The weeks leading up to Duffy’s visa interview were spent taking every bullshit assignment Emmett could give me to get me out of New York and crashing at my friends’ places, watching as they did lovey-dovey shit with their wives. I finally got it. Why they were content losing their freedom for someone else. I’d never felt so trapped in my life, living without the woman I was in love with.
The day before October 22, I sent Duffy a message. I convinced myself that I needed to see if there was still a point in showing up for the interview. Maybe she’d called the entire thing off. Hell, maybe she was working on her wedding to BJ right this moment. Maybe she was dead, and that’s why she hadn’t touched my money yet. My mind went weird places every day we were both engaged in radio silence.
Riggs: We still on for tomorrow?
Her reply came three hours later, which made me wonder what the fuck was more important than her precious green card. Or—her billionaire husband, for that matter.
Duffy: Absolutely. Again, thanks for doing that.
Riggs: Noticed you haven’t contacted my accountant yet.
Duffy: No.
Riggs: No post-nup letters from your lawyer either.
Duffy: ‘My lawyer’? I cannot afford a pedicurist anymore, Riggs. You should see my nails. I look like a sloth.
This made me laugh. Fuck, I missed this woman.
Duffy: I’m not going to touch a penny of your money. I already owe you so much.
Riggs: It’s fine. Have at it. I’ve never been enamored with wealth.
Duffy: Good. I’m beginning to see being money-hungry has a terrible price.
I stared at her message. What did she mean? I wasn’t dumb enough to ask via text.
Duffy: Anyway, see you tomorrow.
Riggs: Yeah. Tomorrow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DUFFY
THE INTERVIEW
The Holy Grail had arrived. The final stop in the process of getting a visa, and, afterward, a green card—the interview.
Riggs and I met outside the USCIS building. It was the first time I’d seen him in weeks. He wore dark jeans and a button-down denim shirt, the first three buttons undone, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, exposing his muscular forearms. His hair had grown in the time I hadn’t seen him, and he looked especially delicious and grown up. So much so I wanted to cry.
“You look good.” He grinned down at me, and I mustered all my strength not to melt into a pool of emotions at his feet.
“You too. How was Morocco?”
“Humid. How was New York?”
“Same, only crowded.”
We both stared at each other, smiling like loons. Riggs was the first to break the spell. He tilted his head toward the building.
“Ready to knock ’em dead?”
“I don’t know if I am.” I ducked my head nervously. “Is . . . not knocking them dead an option? Perhaps slapping them until they’re dizzy?”
Laughing, he reached for my hand, bringing it to his mouth, and my heart stopped when he brushed his lips against my knuckles.
“You’re the girl who does dioramas out of traffic cones and laminates supermarket lists. You’re ready for anything, always. Knock ’em dead, Poppins.”
The adjudicating officer was a nice man named Asher. He had a large pile of documents in front of him, next to an array of family pictures propped on his desk.
He began by apologizing for the stuffy side office we were occupying.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s still larger than my flat.” I giggled. Asher raised his eyebrows, flipping through the pages on his desk.
“That small, huh? I’m surprised, with your husband’s net worth.”
He referred to Riggs’s tax return, which I hadn’t seen at the time we filled out the petition form. Guess we were diving straight into it. All righty, then.
“My husband is not a materialistic person,” I said with confidence, knowing each word spoken was the God-honest truth. “In fact, if you get to know him, you’ll see that he is the least money-oriented person you’d ever meet. The first few times we hung out, I bought him socks because his were holey and I was worried about him come winter.”
Asher listened intently, a small smile on his face. I felt myself blushing.
“Sorry, should I . . . stop talking? Wait for you to take the lead?”
He shook his head. “No. This was perfect. Okay.” He clapped. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Please state your spouse’s full name, date of birth, and place of birth.”
“Riggs Carson Bates, born February eighth, in San Francisco.”
That was an easy one.
“How did you meet?”
“Mutual friend.” Who screwed him while I was watching.
“What are his hobbies?”
“He loves mountain climbing, passionate about nature, food, friends. He is actually quite the cook. Makes great waffles . . . oh, and watermelon margaritas! And he is naturally fit, so even though he’d tell you he doesn’t do sports, he is rather athletic.”