Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I’m sure she’ll say a salad, but I know her well enough to know she’ll pick at my food. From fries to tacos, she’ll order what she thinks she should, but then devour the junk I order. She’s lucky I’m a sharing kind of guy.
When she rinses her face, I can’t stop staring at her natural beauty. Cupping her cheeks, I kiss her forehead, lingering there for a moment. “I’m glad you texted.”
Holding my wrists, she replies, “I’m glad you mentioned that. How in the world did you get here so fast?”
I chuckle, leaning back and reaching for the shampoo behind her. “You want the truth?”
“Always.”
I squeeze the shampoo in the palm of my hand and then set the bottle down before I start running it through the length of her soaked strands. “I was already here.”
“That’s a good party trick.” Her body is so relaxed as I massage her scalp, but then she asks, “Are you a mind reader?”
“I wish. Selfishly, I just wanted to see you.”
The gentle smile that resided on her lips falters as her hands find my middle and hold tight to my ribs. “Jackson . . .” It’s not a question. It’s not even a statement. It’s just her emotions all wrapped up in my name.
“You busted me. I can’t stay away from you.”
She pauses, her gaze fixed on mine before she grants a peek inside her thoughts, and her smile grows again. Between kisses to my chest, she says, “I’m glad you can’t because I can’t either.”
I’m tempted to say maybe we shouldn’t force something that feels so unnatural to both of us, but that’s repeating the past, which I don’t want to do. We’re finding our way on solid footing. I’m just going to have to learn patience.
We finish showering and dry ourselves before she slips on silky pajamas, but I’m relegated to putting on my boxer briefs. Leaving her to climb back under the sheets, I grab my phone and start making my way to the kitchen. Passing every color of handbag imaginable, I stop to ask, “Why are your purses lined up like this?”
“Because I have to sell them.”
Whether it’s her casual response or her even tone, I don’t know why that makes me pause. Standing in her living room looking at what seems to be a solid twenty or more high-end bags, I recognize the logos and signature styles. This collection would be the envy of any woman in Manhattan. My mom and Natalie even own some that are similar.
That’s got to be close to six figures or more in value. I scratch the back of my neck. No way is Marlow going to part with these. “You love your bags?” I don’t know what I’m asking, but this comes as a surprise.
“I do love them, but I need the money,” she says, her voice traveling from the bedroom. “Besides the furniture and a few art pieces, my designer items are all I have to sell.”
Does anyone need a bag that costs fifteen or twenty grand? If you’re asking me, the answer is obvious. No. But I understand the investment. These purses, if taken care of, can bring in a lot of money. Some even appreciate more than the price of gold, diamonds, and stocks.
But it once again cements what an asshole her father is since most, if not all of these, were gifts. Every birthday, another one would arrive when we were celebrating. On holidays when he was out of town filming, he sent a package. I’m not sure where her mom’s been, but her dad was buying her affection when she took him for being sincere. Now he’s left her to clean up this mess.
I don’t know why I take several photos of the bags, but maybe there’s something I can do to help her out. Since my phone is out, I start searching for which restaurants are open to deliver at this hour. “What’s her address?” I mumble, staring at the screen. I’ve been here a million times, but it’s a habit by now, and I don’t even pay attention. I just know where she lives.
She must have something to tell me her street address, a piece of mail, or a package lying around. I start searching the vicinity, but she keeps the place pretty damn clean. I’m about to ask her when I start pulling open drawers, figuring she has to hide stuff somewhere. Don’t we all have a junk drawer?
Bingo.
A large envelope that has confidential stamped on one side has her address on the other. I pull it out and type in the location and apartment number since the maps pinpointed us at the building next door. That would have sucked to have our food delivered to the wrong address.
“I’m thinking a burger and fries,” I call out. “Sound good?”