Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
His note is short, businesslike, and reads more like a contract with everything written in short, bossy lines.
The check is a deposit, I guess. I’ll receive the other half after 180 days of pretending to be his fiancée.
But it seems he doesn’t want to do this as much as me, because he’s also written that to make it ‘as painless as possible for both parties,’ there are negotiable terms and minimal appearances together. There’s even a lawyer set up to keep this nice and legal. Rory only expects a few brief interactions to ensure his deal goes through.
I snort as I reach the end.
We can keep this strictly professional without any improper contact, Miss Winkley. No kissing, no touching, no sharing beds.
Unless, of course, you’d like to negotiate that part too.
Oh my God.
Gag me.
There’s no earthly way I would ever willingly kiss Dexter Rory—much less sleep with him and I do mean sleep—so that’s going to be a requirement of any deal.
Or anti-requirement or whatever.
No kissing.
No sweet caresses.
No holding hands.
No anything.
There are enough married couples in the world who treat their spouses like they have the plague. It’s not that weird if we always keep a few feet between us, right?
I drink another mouthful of wine and swallow too quickly, coughing in my hand.
When it’s written out like this, the arrangement sounds ever-so-slightly less insane than his first proposal.
It doesn’t excuse his little ambush at my store, though.
Whatever he wants, he can leave my family the hell out of it.
I turn the note over, feeling the paper under my fingers. He’s got good handwriting, too, the bastard.
At the top of what looks like Dexter’s personal letterhead, there’s an address.
I take another gulp of wine and set the bottle down on the counter. Dexter isn’t the only one who can spring surprises.
And wouldn’t it be fun to see where he lives when he’s not stomping around barking orders? I wonder what sort of outrageously lavish pond Big Fish calls home.
For luck—and courage—I take a few more swigs of wine. Then I open a can of cat food and dump it in Catness’ bowl.
He comes darting over instantly, swishing his tail and singing the dinner song of his people.
“Don’t worry, boy, I’ll be back soon,” I tell him, grabbing my keys before I head out the door.
If he won’t leave me alone, it’s time to get even.
Time to pay Dexter Rory a visit and remind him what an absolute vile dick he is in person.
6
HOME SWEET HOME (DEXTER)
My knuckles ache like hell.
It’s a good ache, born from exertion, sweat, and the deafening impact of the punching bag.
After the day I’ve had, it’s the type of hurt I need. A way to forget about the check, the deal, and playing dirty.
Most folks see pain as something to cope with and minimize. I decided early on I wouldn’t do that. I chose to use it as a coping mechanism instead.
What choice do I have?
About as much as I did the minute I walked into that bakery and realized Juniper Winkley’s iconic grandmother was standing there.
Yes, I’ve done my homework.
I’ve dredged up the articles about the amazing Jo Winkley, how she took an unremarkable bakery and turned it into a temple of all things cavity inducing. It’s an impressive story.
I’m not such a stone-hearted bastard that I’m immune to admiring her rave success, especially at a time when women entrepreneurs had every obstacle stacked against them.
If the sugar addicts in this city still worship the elder Winkley, then that goes a hundredfold for her own granddaughter, who’s clearly trying to fill grandma’s very big shoes.
Juniper Winkley won’t forgive me easily for the shit I pulled, that’s for sure. If she hadn’t played so damn hard to get, maybe I’d regret it.
I circle the punching bag, my chest heaving and sweat pouring down the back of my neck in rivulets.
I’ve had the same bag since I came back to Kansas City. It’s showing its age, along with about a million impacts.
The frosty light in my gym highlights the scarred material, the way it’s suffered over the years for my sanity.
So maybe I have a soft spot for this old thing. Mainly because when I punch it, it hits right back.
The pain snaps up my arms as I keep going with bone-jarring force, pushing my body to the limit, straining until my muscles scream.
Again.
Harder.
Fucking faster.
My arms are numb mush when the intercom buzzes and I stagger back to catch my breath.
Stopping to wipe my face with a towel, I glare at the screen.
Who the fuck could that be? It’s past nine.
Patton and Archer always call or text to say they’re dropping by first. No one else typically comes except my cleaner, and that’s never at night.
I’m used to my solitude and I like it that way.
But the damn thing buzzes again and I swear loudly as I cross the room to answer it. “Yeah? Who is it?”