Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I damn sure never thought I would get myself off to it.
To make matters worse, I’ve been craving for him to do it again, yet he hasn’t.
He’s been too occupied with work lately to do something with my subtle hints – like sending him pictures of my feet in the new stilettos and slowly applying the expensive Italian mocha lotion to my toes while he’s pacing the living room on a business call instead of having “quality time” together. Quality time in which we both agreed would be wise to invest in order to continue to sell the ruse of being newlyweds.
We know a little about each other but damn sure not enough for someone to be sold we’re in love.
Our once-a-day meals are becoming the longest stretches I’ve really seen him since our little beach tryst – excluding the half-awake foot rubs I receive before he goes to bed. When I ask him what’s going on with work, he changes the subject to discuss what I’m working on instead. When he politely dismisses himself to take a work call, I try to sneak information from his second-in-command about what’s going on, who is equally as uninformative by grunting that his boss is just busy.
Well, that’s for damn sure.
He’s too busy to even affectionately call me “twinkle toes” this week, a term of endearment I can’t believe I’ve actually come to like.
Maybe it’s because no one else – other than my mom – has ever cared enough to give me a nickname.
While Nero’s busy doing whatever it is he does, I, thankfully, have enough projects to keep myself occupied in his absence, including revamping the interior of this beachfront townhouse not too far down the road from our mansion.
Er – Nero’s mansion.
Nero’s mansion that I redecorated a bit in reds and blacks to properly pop the white marble and all the crystal lighting.
There’s no reason this townhouse should be having this much trouble selling considering the prime location and fair asking price. The only thing that comes to mind is that the inside is not properly being displayed to its fullest potential. Between the open floor plan, the large windows for amazing natural lighting, and the kitchen with imported, waterfall marble and appliances that some people can’t even pronounce, this place is a fucking dream come true.
And I’m the lucky bitch who gets to decorate it.
If only I got to be the lucky bitch who owned it.
That would be my dream come true.
The kitchen – my favorite part of any living space – is basically what I used to imagine myself having in twenty years, the approximate amount of time it would take for me to save for something this nice.
I’ve only been in one kitchen better than this, and unfortunately, Nero’s kitchen staff is not fond of me just roaming around their work area.
When Margaret, my assistant, finally manages to stop gawking at our project, she quietly mutters, “Elle, we don’t have the assets to do this place justice.” Our eyes connect. “Like…not. Even. Close.”
“Nope,” Gina, the other member of my team who, like Margaret, has been with me for the past three years, sighs in disbelief. “Our storage unit is not prepared for this. Hell, I don’t think I’ve even prepared for this.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be prepared for this,” Margaret backs in further astonishment.
“Well, ladies, you better get prepared, because we have a job to do.” I poorly hide my giddy grin. “We’ll go over the designs I put together, weed out our best options, and go shopping.”
“When you say weed out, you mean pick what we can afford?” Margaret teases on a ruffle of her curly red hair. “Which isn’t much, by the way. Pretty sure the doorknobs in this place cost more than my damn car.”
“And pillows suitable for this shit would probably cost a month’s rent.”
“Good thing money is no object then.” My casual announcement causes their jaws to hit the ground. “The client is my husband-”
“Still can’t believe you got married,” Margaret grumps in unhappiness.
“We didn’t even know you were dating someone!” Gina shrieks in her mousey voice. “How did we not know that?!”
“Why didn’t we know that?” Margaret continues to interrogate in a suspicious tone.
“Like I told you two at the reception – and then again once a week, every week since – it all just happened kind of fast. One minute we’re squeezing in dates around our hectic schedules and the next-”
“You’re fucking married,” Gina huffs.
“To apparently a billionaire,” Margaret states on a lifted brow.
“I didn’t expect to get married like we did…,” – or at all if we’re being honest – “and you both know if we would’ve done the whole big ceremony thing, you would’ve been there! But we didn’t, which is why you weren’t. And as for not knowing the billionaire thing, I sort of forget he is.”