Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“And you care about her getting a heart attack because . . . ?” Christian cocked his head sideways, wrinkling his forehead.
“She’s unemployed and uninsured. Her hospitalization alone would cost more than an entire wedding.” I scanned my phone, scrolling through messages.
“Look at you, you hopeless romantic,” Christian tutted sardonically. “Is it possible that you like her just a teeny-tiny bit?”
“You’ve met her.” I shot him a bewildered look. “Does she seem like my type?”
“Your type is anyone with a pulse—no matter how faint and shallow—so the answer is yes,” Arsène deadpanned.
Putting aside the fact that she vomited into my bag, blackmailed me into marriage, and referred to me as the village idiot at least twice a day, Duffy also had a quasi boyfriend. I didn’t dislike her, but I sure wasn’t her number one fan. More than anything, she possessed the one trait I despised about people the most—she was money hungry.
“She’s gorgeous,” I admitted gruffly. “But would also marry a convicted child murderer if he had his own yacht. She’s the definition of a gold digger.”
“And you play the poor Oliver Twist,” Arsène finished, fingering an expensive pair of earrings for consideration for his wife. “Which means there’s no risk of her falling for you. Not that there would be if she knew you were a billionaire. You have fewer boyfriend qualities than a bottle of Flonase.”
Ever since Arsène fell in love and decided to marry the widow of his girlfriend’s side piece, he’d fancied himself the twenty-first century’s answer to Romeo.
“Thanks for the unasked-for opinion. I’ll be sure to ignore it.” I parked my elbows on the counter. The salesman came back with an array of engagement rings arranged on a white satin pillow.
“There you are, sir. Please let me know if you have any questions.”
I did have a question—What the fuck am I doing?
I still couldn’t believe I was getting married.
“Looks like you’re a little overwhelmed.” Christian eyed me. “You sure you’ve thought this whole thing through? Marriage is baggage. Real or not.”
“I’m not afraid of marriage.” I began plucking up the engagement rings one by one and examining them. “But, like hard drugs, I prefer to stay away from the concept.”
“Because—also like hard drugs, it gets you addicted.” Christian pointed at a silver ring with a cushion diamond.
I needed to find something not excruciatingly expensive. Didn’t want to blow my cover as a billionaire to a woman who would marry a no-show mouth breather with an oral sex name just so she could afford to shop on Fifth Avenue.
Arsène pushed his face into the pillow of rings with a scowl. “Which one screams Daphne Markham to you?”
“Dunno.” I skimmed through all of them. “Is there anything that looks like it would look good on a thirty-year-old divorcée with two children and a time-share in Aspen Highlands?”
Arsène chuckled. “Aren’t you a lucky bastard?”
I knew she wanted something mouthwateringly gauche, with a diamond the size of her head. But I also knew she’d tell immediately if I got her something expensive, and I wasn’t in a hurry to please her.
“She’d probably hate an heirloom ring.” I scrubbed the stubble on my chin. I pushed the pillow with the rings toward the salesperson. “Which means that’s exactly what she’s going to get.”
“An heirloom?” Christian glowered at me. “You need a family to have heirloom pieces. Your ass is lonelier than a brain cell in Congress.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
Arsène clapped my shoulder. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“Are we going to rob a nice elderly lady?” Christian inquired calmly. “Because that’s the only way he is getting this woman a family heirloom.”
“Granny needn’t worry.” Arsène turned around, heading for the glass door. “We’re going to a place where you sell your soul for a few bucks.”
“Wall Street?” Christian and I both followed him reluctantly.
Arsène laughed, already hailing a taxi. “Pawnshop hopping.”
Seven Brooklyn pawnshops and one purchase later, I returned to my love nest with Poppins, a.k.a. the woman who vomited into my messenger bag, then had the audacity to tell me I was uncivilized for throwing it into a public trash can because it would leave a terrible smell.
I pushed the door open. Her voice filled the apartment like soap bubbles. She seriously had the poshest accent I’d ever heard, including the royal family.
“. . . no, Kieran. Mooning thy neighbor is absolutely not a form of courting.”
“Why?” I heard a male voice rising from the speakerphone in the kitchenette.
“Because it’s harassment, isn’t it?” Duffy leaned against the counter, sipping lemon water. She hadn’t noticed me yet. “Besides, she won’t fancy you for it.”
“Why not?” Kieran demanded. “I have a great sense of humor, and an even greater arse.”
Wait, wait, wait. That was Kieran, her twin brother? Why did he sound like Michael Caine? She sounded like a gently bred, privately educated princess, and he . . . like the person who cleaned her chimney.