Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
I see the way my mom looks at my dad’s ass when he reaches up to change light bulbs and the way my dad looks at my mom’s chest when she leans over to dust the coffee table.
That’s the type of shit I want.
Although maybe not the grabbing a handful of ass thing that they do when one walks by regardless of if their children are in the room.
When the lighting up of my phone finally stops, I look up, no new emotion – good or bad – to register. “Besides, being great at his job and working for a great price, he’s also just a pure joy to have around.”
“Thanks, boss lady.”
“Maybe you should use him for your book, Katherine! He’s super young-”
“Not that young.”
“-and probably has a million great stories at the very least one really exciting adventure to tell.”
“Me?” He nervously chuckles. “I uh…I doubt that.”
“Doesn’t matter either way,” Katherine brushes him off with a flick of the theatrical wrist. “It’s not your story that I wanna hear. It’s hers. And just like you’re going to call me with your estimate for painting my precious Angel’s nursey, she’s going to tell me her big, locked up, never to be told, rejected by Disney story, so don’t you worry your pretty, baby blue eyes about it.”
Merrick gives us another amused smile at the same time he pulls his keys to the supply closet out of his pocket. “Give me three days. I want you to have equally viable options to choose from.”
Like a weird, wealthy magician, Katherine offers him her business card out of nowhere. “Love when a man under thirty uses words like viable.”
He merely chuckles, accepts the object, and strolls off to do his job.
“Loathe when a man uses words like disestablishmentarian and molecular gastronomy over martinis and mushrooms.”
“You were with Carter’s colleagues last night, weren’t you?”
She bitterly nods. “And I contemplated faking a call from the nanny to go home early.”
I don’t bother hiding my giggle.
“We left with six minutes to spare before I would’ve ended up a case study in someone else’s life’s work instead of you in mine.”
Seeing where the conversation is headed once more has me doing my best to further avoid being her guinea pig. “Shouldn't you grab your daughter from her classroom?”
“She’s fine. Lizzie has her. You know Angel can’t get enough of that woman.”
“She’s six months, babe. She likes anyone who coos at her and pretends to disappear.”
Ah…Babies.
Some people want them.
And some people only want others to take care of them.
They’re honestly something I thought I would’ve had by now. God, I wanted them so bad when I was younger. I wanted to have four or five or six of them just surrounding my feet at any given moment. I wanted to hold them and nurture them. I wanted little bundles that were combinations of me and the person I loved more than I loved myself. I wanted us to take them on special vacations – something my parents couldn’t afford to do with us often – spend time every night reading with them before bed, encouraging that relationship with literature and learning like mine had done. I wanted them to have his great health and height instead of my iron deficiency and terrible eyesight. I wanted us to tell them how much we loved them every single day. I wanted them to have the love I did for my family and the love he deserved from his yet never got.
But…dreams change just like people do.
Not sure that one did.
Not sure it didn’t.
What I am sure about is there’s no place in my life to put that many children outside of the classrooms in this building and that I currently have no desire to procreate with the man I’m momentarily co-existing with.
“Please,” Katherine anxiously begs, her dainty figure dramatically bouncing. “I really do need this. I didn’t ask anyone else, darling. I knew I could trust you. I knew I could count on you. I knew you would take this seriously. This is my career on the line.”
Not her career, her favorite hobby. Her beloved never-ending project. Taking the uninhabited ideas most of us leave for dead and creating entire books around them. She feeds other socialites’ studies about subjects that will help them sleep easier with their double dose of Ambien. It’s not to say I don’t think she has merit or skill. She’s quite brilliant. Especially on the page. Almost…uncomfortably so. However, I don’t want to be used to make some point that in the long run I may or may not agree with nor do I want to be used as an example in conversations strangers have regarding their romantic relationships.
I should never be used as a reference point for that.
And I do mean never.
“Presley.”
“Ugh,” a heavy grumble escapes before my inevitable submission, “What is it I have to do exactly?”