Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Your friends have really good manners.”
“How do you mean?”
“Ten o’clock and they’ve all chuffed off home.”
“It’s what happens when you’re getting on in years like me. You like to be in bed with your pipe—”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I was going to say pipe and slippers, but then realized how stupid that sounded.”
But my mind is still stuck on pipe, and his smile falters as though he seems to know.
“I wonder how Daisy is tonight,” he says, changing the topic, not so smoothly, as he seems to force his smile back into place.
It’s her first visitation with her dad this month. Apparently, he canceled the last two.
“She has her phone if she needs us.” Call only. Strictly no access to socials. She already seems to worry enough. “What time is she back tomorrow?”
“She has to be back before four, but she usually arrives way before then.”
“Oh.” I have thoughts about this, but they’re not to be aired right now. Not as I wrap my arms around his waist and lean in… for Raif to drop a kiss on my head.
The platonic kind.
Like my name is Daisy.
Or even Albert the bulldog.
“I liked the photo in the silver frame,” I whisper. “It was a nice touch.”
“I sent your mother a copy.”
“I’m sure she loved that.”
“Yes.” His hands behind his back, pull mine gently away. “I’ve got some work to do. You don’t need to wait up.”
I blink, wondering what the heck happened to our vibe, but he’s already disappearing down the long hallway.
How many nights now? I almost call after him as he disappears down the hallway. I bite my tongue instead. I won’t be that woman.
I go to sleep alone. Wake alone. And that pisses me off.
I make a beeline for the kitchen, pulling a random bottle from the temperature-controlled wine room. I’m so angry I end up leaving half the cork in the neck, but I’m beyond caring as I slosh the liquid into an ice cream sundae dish because I can’t. Find. A. Fucking. Glass!
If there’s a downside to being fed by a personal chef, this is it.
I take my wine sundae to the windows and stare out at the darkened garden. The house is silent, and I am lonely. And very, very pissed off as I let my anger keep me warm as I drink my wine, seethe, and plot.
Abandoning my cork-y cabernet in favor of a bottle of champagne, I take it and my ice cream sundae glass upstairs. In his bedroom, because it’s not nor will it ever be our bedroom, I prop both on the dresser, then connect my phone to the sound system. I crank it way up, safe in the knowledge that the house’s soundproofing won’t disturb Daisy.
Or my husband.
I have another plan for that.
I pop the cork, drink the foam from the bottle to prevent a spill, then top up my glass. Taylor Swift is my company of choice as I begin the hunt for the perfect outfit. I pull hanger after hanger from my side of the closet, dumping the mix of color and fabric on the bed. I don’t really need to pull all this stuff out. It’s not like I brought heaps of clothes, but I’m making a point.
I opt for something a girl might wear for partying; a nude tube dress overlaid by black mesh. It has a bustier top that cinches me in tight at the waist and makes the girls stand up and out, demanding attention. A swath of fabric cuts across my hips, accentuating their shape, before dropping like a curtain from one side to mid-thigh. Which is exactly how short it is. There really isn’t much to it, though it fits like I was poured into it.
It's a dress that demands attention and puts ideas into a man’s head, according to the last man to hit on me.
A sharp, black flick of liner and a vivid slash of red to my lips. Bare legs, slathered with a moisturizer containing a subtle shimmer. Killer heels. A tiny purse. My hair pulled back into a high assassin’s ponytail. It’s not just the dress that demands attention.
Opening the glass doors to the Juliet balcony, I pull them wide before throwing back a little more champagne. A sundae glass is quite a generous pour, but Dutch courage is the order of the evening as I slide my phone from the dresser.
Friday evening, 11:07 p.m., and I’m ordering a cab. I take a seat on the velvet bench at the bottom of the bed, decorously arrange my legs, and curl my fingers around the edge of the seat. All that’s left to do is wait.
I probably should’ve chosen an evening when we hadn’t gone out for dinner or maybe a day that isn’t the start of a weekend because it’s almost midnight, and I’ve fidgeted plenty, when my cab app pings with an arrival notification.