Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I stare back.
"Six years ago—"
"You proved how much it matters to you."
Her brow softens. Her eyes go to the floor. "So why didn't you… no, it doesn't matter. You're sober now."
I nod, even though it's not a question.
"For how long?"
"Thirteen months now." I got out of rehab a year ago. I've been in New York for a year. But I've barely spoken to her.
"Congratulations." Pride slips into her voice. Just barely. "That's quite an accomplishment."
"I'm not going to offer a cliché about taking it one day at a time."
"One woman at a time, the last I heard."
"You've heard things?" I ask.
"Your name travels fast."
"And what have people said?"
Her guard drops. The tension in her shoulders eases. She shoots me that really look. Her classic when we were kids. When she couldn't believe the things my family did. Or bought. "I guess you're living in a cave."
"The straw bed is particularly uncomfortable."
"And it makes a mess of your hair." She pretends to pick something out of my hair.
I shrink back, reflexively.
Her eyes turn down. "Oh, I—"
Fuck. I'm past this. I am. "It's fine."
"Don't want me messing up your style?" she offers.
I nod of course. But it hangs in the air. That tension. I flinched when she tried to touch me. I'm going to offer to fuck her senseless, but I flinch when she tries to touch me.
I'm sure it makes no sense to her.
It barely makes sense to me. No, it doesn't. But I don't have the luxury of sorting it out.
She smooths her dress. "You're sober."
"Yes."
"And you'll stay sober."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"They're still selling the old chestnut about life."
"No." She presses her palms into her thighs. "How long do you want to stay married?"
I can't start at a month. Or a year even. I need room to work my way down.
She wants this to be easy. She wants to forget the last six years. The ultimatum. The months before it.
I turn my body toward hers.
She shudders as my knees brush hers. She wants that too. Wants my body over hers, my lips on her skin, my hands between her legs.
"Until I decide to call it off," I say.
"Forever?"
"Yes."
"So you… what do you think is going to happen? I'm going to see your bank account and fall in love?"
"You know what's in my bank account."
"Your—" She motions to my crotch.
"My cock."
Her cheeks blush. "Are you… expecting that?"
"I'm not paying you to sleep with me."
She stares at me with that same really expression. She wants to keep this light. To shrug this off.
Part of me does. But the other part—"I'm not paying for your body, Jasmine."
"You pay me to sleep in your bedroom and while we're there—"
"No. I'm not going to touch you until you ask." And I'm not inviting anyone into my bedroom.
"I won't."
"Until you're so desperate you're on your knees, begging for my cock." I slip my leg between hers.
She groans as my knee brushes the inside of her thigh. "I won't."
"You will."
"No. I won't."
"Let's say you don't. For the sake of argument." She will. But no sense in debating now. "Then I won't touch you."
"You can't be with someone else," she says.
"You either."
"So we're just going to… not have sex."
"If that's what you want." I keep my voice firm. So it screams we both know what you want.
"A lifetime without sex?"
"You have a counter?"
"Three months."
"For two million dollars?"
"One." She swallows hard. "Three months for a million dollars. And you pay for my father's treatment. Right now."
"Two years."
She shakes her head. "Three months."
"One year."
Her eyes meet mine. "And you pay his treatment right now?"
"You'll move into my apartment tomorrow."
Her eyes fill with surprise. "Tomorrow?"
"I'll have my team find you a dress. We'll arrange everything. Marry right away."
"I'm picking my own dress."
"Sure."
"You can pull strings to have it rush ordered. But I'm in charge of my look—"
"I'll arrange a personal stylist."
Her lips press together.
"To advise. You have final say."
"And the wedding itself?"
"You have something in mind?"
"My dad… I don't want him to know why. I want him to believe we—"
"Of course." Better for me. When people pretend, they start to believe it. "If you'll convince my colleagues."
Her eyes flare with surprise. It flashes over her face, the realization that I need this as much as she does. Still, she nods. "I'll have a lawyer look over the contract."
"There are a dozen lawyers in your office."
"You're okay with them having this information?"
"It won't be so specific." I smooth my slacks. Let the back of my hand brush her thigh.
"How"—she sucks in a deep breath—"specific will it be?"
"A standard prenup. After one year of marriage, you get a million dollars. With an extra million every year. Until we hit ten and you get a quarter of everything I've gained in the decade."
"Is that supposed to be some sort of bribe?"
"Insurance." I rest my hand on her thigh.