Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
How crazy is that?
I was trying to convince myself that wasn’t Fin, that he wouldn’t be so wasteful. So shallow, I suppose. Then I picked up the balloon dog, googled it out of curiosity, and discovered what it was worth. To borrow a Ronny phrase, I was shook.
I still am, but I’m trying not to hold it against him as I rifle through the kitchen drawers looking for a pen and paper.
It’s like no one even lives here. Where’s the junk drawer?
I’m being unfair, I know. Especially after I acted like such a bitch last night. It’s his money, and I’m sure he works hard for it. But when there’s so much poverty in the world, it’s hard to stomach. To think my fee might only buy me ten of these stupid balloon dogs!
An objet d’art or maybe an investment piece, I’m sure the interior designer would’ve called it.
It might only be a drop in the filthy lucre ocean to Fin, yet this money is a lifeline to me. I’m so grateful to have it—and I have better plans than spending it on bits of shiny rubbish.
Ah, good. A pen and paper. I pull them out and flip open the pad.
I was a total bitch as a defense mechanism, but I apologized for calling him a fuckboy. I know that’s not him. I apologized with words too. Not just with my body. That wasn’t my intention when I flung myself at him. I think, in the moment, I just needed to be held. And I wanted to hold him.
My cave of safety.
The thing is, I don’t think I’d ever need to be on the defense as far as Fin is concerned.
“We need to think about our sleeping arrangements.”
Last night, as Fin’s chest rose and fell under my mine, our bodies still joined, his back sprawled across the sofa, he seemed to think I might need an excuse to sleep with him after I said I’d take another room.
“What do you mean?” I was seminaked and sprawled across him. Wasn’t that hint enough?
“I have staff. A housekeeper, a cleaning crew.”
“An orchid keeper?”
“A what?” He lifted his head and stared at me as though I had two heads.
“It’s a thing. Apparently.”
“If we sleep in separate rooms, we might set tongues to wagging.”
“As long as they only wag in this apartment,” I said, my eyebrows riding high on my head. “Because surely a smart man like you had them sign NDAs.” So he wouldn’t see my amusement, I pressed my lips to his chest. His skin was salty with sweat and a musk unique to him.
“I did. They do.” I could hear the smile in his voice as I struggled upright and he slid the hair from my face.
“So what’s the problem?”
“The press gets their information from somewhere.”
“You have a leak?”
He shrugged, not quite committing himself. “Who knows? But do you want to take the risk?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this has the very strong flavor of you angling for a thing.”
“A thing?”
I heard his reply like a lift of questioning brows.
“A fling. A situationship. A relationship. A something.”
The backs of his fingers coasted down my arm. “Or like a husband and a wife enjoying their marriage.”
“Fin.” His name ached from me quite suddenly.
“We could just not name it and see where it goes.”
Until it burns itself out and one of us loses our heart?
I slept in his bed. In his arms, in my cave of Fin. And all those noises, all that confusion, it still chattered as I sank into oblivion.
He woke me before he left for the office this morning. He had a meeting he couldn’t miss, he said. He’ll be back before lunch. But I won’t be here, so I scribble him a note to say not to expect me back for the rest of the day.
My heart tells me I should stay far, far away, but my head knows that if I want to hang on to what’s left of my business, that’s not going to be possible.
Keep a business, lose my heart?
My body sways in time with the carriage. This morning’s mammoth trek from Fin’s swanky Knightsbridge address to Baba’s nursing home in the outer reaches of East London has included two Tubes and a train. The carriage is packed, though the motion lulls my tired soul in a song of get in, get out, get in, get out.
I pull my phone from my purse as it buzzes with a call—an unknown number. I don’t bother answering. I can’t imagine it’ll be important. Besides, I hate taking calls when I feel like people might listen in. The call rings out, and I stare at the screen, the temptation to reread that stupid article so hard to ignore.
“No one hears good at a keyhole.” My grandmother’s words echo in my head.