Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“Shocking.” I flipped the page of my newspaper.
She moaned, tossing her head back on the headrest. “I’m pretty sure I’m about to vomit on this dress.”
It appeared as though she suffered from alcohol poisoning. Just when I thought choosing unattractive, sixty-something pilots would ensure an event-free journey.
I dog-eared a page and moved onto the next. “No need to narrate your existence aloud. Truly, no part of me cares.”
“Aren’t you going to help me?”
“No.”
“Well, then. I guess I’ll just puke all over your private jet and stink it to eternity.”
With a groan, I slid off my seat and hoisted her up in my arms, carrying her to the bathroom honeymoon-style.
She was lifeless in my embrace. I wondered if it’d be a good idea to make a U-turn so I could get her straight to the hospital.
Then, in her signature Shortbread whine, she issued demands. “Make sure you pull all my hair up so nothing gets stuck on it…oh, and the dress. Take my dress off.”
The privilege. The sass. The blind belief that the world owed her something. She was fine.
“Try not to drink like the future of this nation depends on it next time.”
I plopped her on the floor before we reached the toilet, flipped her on her stomach, and began unfastening her dress. And there was a lot of dress to get rid of.
She swam in fabric. It took ten minutes to release her from the buttons, zippers, and frills.
Dallas being Dallas, she wiggled, clawing at the thin carpet. “Faster! I can’t hold it in anymore.”
“Is everything okay?” The stewardess poked her head in from the kitchen, where she prepared fresh fruit and mimosas.
It must have looked like I was wrestling a wild boar from that angle.
“Yes.”
“Excuse me, sir, but it doesn’t look—”
“Am I paying you for your eyesight or to clean my toilets and prepare my snacks? While we’re at it, toss the mimosas in the garbage. The last thing my wife needs is more alcohol in her bloodstream.”
All my employees, top to bottom, signed NDAs. A favorable arrangement, seeing as my manners lacked without a Bloomberg Finance mic directed straight to my face.
When Dallas finally escaped her dress, clad only in a strapless beige bra and matching thong, I rolled the elastic off her wrist and tried tying her hair up.
“No time!” She punched me in the face, frantic. “I need to puke.”
I dragged her to the bathroom, flipped open the toilet, and gathered her hair in my hand from behind while balancing her with my other palm.
She began projectile vomiting everywhere. As I towered over her, cradling her head so she wouldn’t break her spine and introduce me to a world of legal pain, I questioned what kind of idiot married a woman like her.
I was normally ruthlessly rational. What on Earth made me think this was a good idea?
Even sticking it to Madison Licht wasn’t a good enough reason. Shortbread was the human answer to a category-six hurricane. Whatever she touched, she destroyed.
After a few minutes of emptying her gut, she collapsed into a ball on the floor, hugging the toilet. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hue shifted from green to dead white.
I escaped the bathroom to bring her water and Advil, purely because I didn’t want our next stop to be an emergency one at an Irish hospital.
She accepted my offerings without gratitude.
After washing down the pills, she shot me a glare. “Why didn’t you bring my toothbrush and toothpaste?”
“For the same reason I haven’t drawn you a bath and trimmed your toenails. I’m not your maid.”
I tossed her empty water bottle in the trash. Not even Oliver had gotten this level of care from me when he’d shown up on my steps shit-faced after a Porcellian Club initiation at Harvard.
She scowled at me through bloodshot eyes, still on the floor. “My mouth reeks.”
“The rest of you is not so attractive, either.”
“Toothbrush.”
“Manners,” I instructed in the same grating tone.
“Screw you.” Perhaps she considered this a step up, since she didn’t scrape my eyes out while she said it.
“Regretfully, I decline. I’ll be reading the Wall Street Journal outside.” I strode away.
“This is all your fault,” she cried to my back. “I wouldn’t have gotten drunk if it weren’t for you.” I didn’t break my pace. “Oh, fine. Please, give me my toothbrush. Happy now?”
I wasn’t happy now.
I probably wouldn’t be happy ever after my unfortunate decision to marry this woman.
But apparently, I’d found my heartless sociopath limit, because I hauled myself to her suitcase, fished out a pack of toothbrushes along with a tube of Colgate, and brought them to Dallas.
I let her shower, brush her teeth, and get back to herself while I skimmed financial news in my seat, sipping lukewarm coffee.
She emerged thirty minutes later, hair damp and face scrubbed pink, wearing an MIT hoodie she must’ve stolen from my suitcase.