Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Seems like you’ve thought this through.” Again, unfortunately. “But she’ll probably wake up at some point,” I throw in as a last attempt at putting the girl off.
“No, I won’t!” protests my little traitor.
“And she can be crabby.” Hooking my thumb at my child, I pull a face. “See? Maybe we should just order pizza and watch a movie. I’m a girl, too.”
“You’re not a girl. You’re a mommy,” Lu mutters in a voice a little like Regan in The Exorcist. “You gotta go out, okay?”
“Okay, okay!”
“We’ll be fine, Miss—we’ll be fine, Fee. And you know, you look much too pretty to be staying home.”
As my phone bings with Beth’s text—in the car downstairs—I feel like I want to smile and cry at the same time, and I’m not at all sure why.
Lu, bless her traitorous little cotton socks, takes my hands and walks me to the door as though it’s my first day at school. She presses a kiss to my cheek, practically propelling me out into the hall.
“Have fun, Mommy. See you later. Much later.”
The door slams shut, and that is the end of that, it seems.
My already pinching heels echo as I cross the marble foyer, and Ed opens the door to a blast of chilly night air. He smiles and inclines his head, and I murmur my thanks, choking back the ridiculous desire to blurt out that I need thermals, not nipple covers for this dress.
Nipple covers. Now, there is an item I thought I would never need again. Tiny pasties to pop over your nipples when going braless. The sales assistant in Bloomingdales had suggested I pick up a packet to wear with this dress. I only hope they’re a little more reliable than they were five years ago because I’d more often than not find them tucked into my waistband by the end of the night.
That’s the covers, not my nipples.
My gaze slides to the right, ignoring the shiny grey Maybach purring at the kerbside. But as the driver rounds the vehicle and opens the rear passenger door, a familiar head pops out.
“Evenin’ guv’ner. You lookin’ for a roide?”
“I was looking for a cab,” I mutter, sliding into the buttery leather before the door closes with an expensive-sounding thunk.
“I said I’d pick you up.” Pulling out a silver compact from her purse, Beth examines her lipstick, her tone a touch arch.
“I thought you’d be in a cab, or maybe a deluxe Uberlux or something.” Despite how it looks in the movies, few people in the city travel by cab.
My eyes catch those of the driver. Was that a smirk or derision? I can’t make it out. I mean, I have my contact lenses in, but he still seems so far away.
Big fancy Maybach = wealthy.
“I spent the day at my parents’.” She snaps her compact shut. “They offered me their car.”
“My dad offered me a car once,” I reply. “It was a Fiat Punto that had been around the block a few times. And it needed a new engine block.”
“You’re so funny,” she says with a chuckle.
“Tea on the lawn this afternoon, was it?” I pull a prim face and mime drinking from a fancy cup complete with saucer, a smile tugging at my lips. “And a jolly game of croquet?”
“No. We’re more like bocci people. But only in the summertime. You know, at our vacation home in the Hamptons.”
“Okay, fancy knickers. I get the point.” Her parents are loaded. Minted! But I bet they’re nowhere near as entertaining as my olds.
“I do have on fancy knickers. Oh, wait. No, I don’t.” Her smile gleams wickedly as she slides her hand over her hip.
“Don’t even,” I warn. “Where are we off to, anyway?”
“Not far away.”
And she’s right because it isn’t long before we’re pulling up at a fancy apartment block.
“We could’ve walked.” It’s only a slight exaggeration. I wouldn’t have gotten very far in these heels.
The car door is opened, and I slide out, almost literally. This might be the fanciest dress I’ve owned in a long while, but boy, is it slippery.
“Good evening. Welcome to Ardeo.”
A woman stands in front of us in a black sheath dress. Blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun, and her makeup is understated. She looks like the hostess of a fancy restaurant. Or a Stepford wife, the New York version, maybe. I notice the leather-covered tablet in her hand and decide she must be the former. But that isn’t a restaurant standing behind her; it’s a residential building. And the hulk of a man guarding the entrance looks like security.
“May I take your names?” She smiles benignly, raising the tablet to check us in as Beth supplies her with the information. My spidey senses begin to tingle, along with my nipples in this dress. It’s from the cold air, I think, rather than a sense of foreboding as she reaches into the open folder, sliding two different colour ribbons from the open leaf.