Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
"I don't, usually."
"Then don't make an exception for me."
"I'm just…" I'm not used to sharing my feelings. My thoughts? Sure. My ideas? Yes. But actual feelings? It's horrifying. "I, uh… I might not have noble intentions."
"With Liam?"
"Yeah."
"He's a handsome young man."
"He is. But it's more about my business."
"Using him for his money?"
No. It's a deal. But I can't say that. I can't say anything. "My app. For mental health support. It will help a lot of people. People like me. My mom. He knows it's my first priority. He knows I want to make it a big thing. And he… he's going to be a really good partner."
"That's why you agreed to marry him? So he'll blow up your app?"
"Not exactly." Yes, exactly, but there's a way to explain this. "But it helps."
"You're ignoble, wanting to help people?"
"When you put it like that…"
"Isn't it?"
Is it? Maybe. "I'm using him."
"Does he know?"
"Liam? Of course."
"Does he care?"
"No. He appreciates being used."
Preston smiles I know you mean that in a dirty way. "You understand each other."
I nod.
"He sees you. And you see him, don't you?"
"I like to think so."
"That's what you need in a marriage. It's not all you need. It's hard work, sometimes. Not usually. But sometimes. You need commitment, respect, conflict resolution. But you need to understand each other too. The rest… you two will figure it out."
"You really think so?"
"I do."
"And if we don't? If we get married and it gets fucked up and I leave him?"
"There are many things in my life I regret. The failure of my marriage is one. But the marriage itself? Never."
"Why do you always sound so wise?"
"I'm in a thoughtful mood these days." He looks at me like he's considering adding to his statement, but he doesn't. He finishes his brandy, he hails the waitress, he pats my hand. "What do you say I walk you home?"
"How about to a car?" I show off my heeled sandals. "I don't want to walk all the way home in these."
"Deal." He offers his hand.
I shake.
Then I let him pay, I collect my purse, I follow Preston to the elevator, the lobby, the cab waiting out front.
"Liam loves you. I know he doesn't seem capable sometimes, but he will take care of you if you let him. If you tell him you need that. Please, do it. For me."
"I'll try."
He nods and pulls me into a hug.
It's strange, paternal, this affection I used to feel from my own father, that I blocked a long time ago.
The tension in my shoulders releases. My back. My jaw. My legs.
When he releases me, I stumble. I take careful steps, slide into the car gently.
The driver asks where I want to go.
But I don't ask him to take me home.
I crash Liam's party instead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Liam
"Hell yeah!" Jimmy claps his hands together. "About time." He slides one arm around the lady on his left—the one in the Maid of Dishonor sash. "You ready?"
"She's already topless." The maid of honor giggles as the dancer on stage shimmies.
The dancer is, in fact, topless. She's wearing some kind of pastel pink thong covered in rhinestones. It matches her glittery pastel pink heels.
With the long blond hair and the big fake tits, she's got a real old school Playboy aesthetic. I was raised on those particular magazines—among others—but I'm uninspired by her hip thrusts.
Even as she hooks a leg around the pole, spins, turns upside down.
It's a cool trick, sure, but what's the nudity add to the equation? I've never minded strip clubs—naked women, why not—but I've never been into them either.
I prefer a little privacy in these situations.
I guess that's why some guy invented the champagne room. And, honestly, I get why douchebags like Jimmy enjoy the setting.
A hot chick, taking off her clothes, grinding on my dick, pretending she finds me fascinating?
I see the appeal.
I even appreciate the transparent transactional nature of the situation.
Jimmy doesn't need to worry that Candy here is using him for his money. He doesn't need to worry about breaking her heart or giving her the wrong impression.
He deludes himself into believing she likes him, sure, but, deep down, he knows what he's getting.
For four hundred dollars an hour, she'll twist herself into any angle he likes. She'll pretend he's the most fascinating, sexy man on the planet and she'll do it without her clothes.
It's all on the table. Much like her bra and the bills lining the stage.
The guy wants to get off without getting involved. He pays for the privilege. Good for him for knowing what he wants.
I considered professional help a few times. After a string of particularly painful endings. I'm an asshole sometimes, but never on purpose. I don't want to break hearts. It doesn't feel good.
I didn't know what to do to change the situation. I thought I was being upfront. I thought I made things clear.