Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
I kissed her again. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I love Grav too, you know.”
That last one earned me much more than a kiss.
RHYLAND
Six months later
“She’s screaming, kicking, and making a fuss.” My phone was glued to my ear, and I stared at the pitiful mess at my feet. “I had no idea the first day of preschool was going to be this stressful for her, Row.”
“My sister is only a hundred and twenty pounds. Get her off the floor, and take her back to your car,” my best friend grumbled. “How hard can it fucking be?”
“Four times a night, and sometimes when I’m still inside her.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“My jokes are my art, and I will die for my art.”
“Okay, Pic-ass-o, pick her up before the paparazzi arrive,” Row enunciated.
I was attracting all kinds of attention now that I was a semi-famous tech mogul.
“Fuck. She’ll use her claws, but okay.”
I hung up the phone and tucked it into my pocket. Dylan was still crying on the floor outside the preschool. Yeah, the same one she was supposed to give an answer to some months ago and never did. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to pay the application fees and fill out all the forms so Grav would have a spot there. I knew Dylan would end up going to college and would need to put Gravity in the three-day program. Cherrie was very accommodating of the fact that I’d signed a child who was not technically under my care to her school.
And the little stinker? She was a rock star about it. She was joining class during the second semester, so we skipped the fancy signs and photo shoots, but she showed up today with an apple to give to her teacher and the neon-green UGG boots I got her as a gift so she’d always remember her individuality, even if she needed to wear a uniform now.
She’d waved us goodbye without so much as a glance and run off to join her classmates and teachers. It was Dylan who was a hot mess.
“I’m going to miss her so much,” my fiancée hiccupped on the floor.
I followed her brother’s suggestion and hurled her up into my arms. A mental breakdown on the steps of the most prestigious preschool in Manhattan was not a great look.
“You’re going to be fine,” I muttered into her ear, carrying her honeymoon-style to the car while she burst out in another bout of weeping. Dylan was a tough cookie. Watching her crumble like that was jarring, to say the least. “May I remind you, you’ll be busy reading through books and studying your hot ass off?” I tried to avert her thoughts from Gravity.
“It’s February. I have six months before my semester starts,” she moaned into my neck, lolling her head back and forth.
“Good thing you have the wedding of the century to plan, then,” I grumbled. “That’ll keep you busy.”
Even though I was now richer than God, Dylan had turned out to be a thrifty bride. She was planning the wedding for August so she could focus on her studies later. She’d been accepted to Fordham’s premed program and was over the goddamn moon. She’d also moved out of Row’s apartment and up into my penthouse with Gravity the day I asked her to marry me for real, but she still took care of Row’s apartment for free, because she was a better human than I was.
“The wedding’s already planned. All we have to do is show up,” Dylan protested as I tucked her into the passenger seat.
“That, I can do.” I rounded the car and joined her in the driver’s seat. “Can I take you out on a date?” I turned to wink at her.
She checked the time on her phone. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the office?”
Ever since we soft-launched App-date three months ago and quite literally broke the App Store (and the internet, several times), I’d had my hands full and had been working fifteen-hour days. Fake dating had turned out to be lots of people’s favorite trope, because we offered a hundred bucks’ worth of dinner vouchers to any two users who sent us proof of marriage or engagement as a result of the app, and the couples just kept on coming, to the point that we’d had to start striking deals with restaurant chains.
“No. I’m supposed to be inside you,” I corrected her.
“Let’s skip to the food part then.” She rubbed her palms together. “I’m ready.”
“Nah. I wanna wine you and dine you and show you how much you mean to me.”
“Rhyland.” She sighed. “We’re getting married in a few months. I’m living off boiled eggs, coffee, and Pinterest inspo at this point. What makes you think I want to be wined and dined?”
“This right here.” I pulled out my phone and showed her a screenshot of a social media post I’d found of hers, dated back to when she was twenty. She was still with Tucker back then—yes, the same motherfucker who was serving four years in prison these days—and living in Maine.