Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Are you really living here for a year?” I ask, unable to move on. The thought sits wrong in my gut. It really would be an inconvenience.
He buries himself in the fridge, his broad shoulders blocking the light.
“Nah. I've got a place I'll be crashing at.” Glass bottles clink as he shifts things around. “I just have to hang around for Parker. He's getting a little senile in his old age.”
Senile. The word makes my fingers drum against my thigh. I've never questioned Parker's work and never felt the need to, but why would Asher need to hang around?
“Ah, the age jokes,” I tease, swinging onto a bar stool. The leather creaks under me. I've barely settled into this house, yet Asher has talked to me more than Parker. Not that I mind my husband's silence; it keeps things clean. Simple. But Asher doesn't fit into any of my carefully constructed boxes, and with him, this dangerous banter feels… fine.
Too fine.
He tilts his head, holding water in his mouth with puffed cheeks. He looks cute, for someone entirely too large to be called cute. His throat bobs as he swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Age a sensitive subject for you?”
I hold his stare, his teasing words clawing at some buried wound I keep well hidden. “Not when it has nothing to do with anyone under me.”
His brows shoot up in surprise before his head tilts back with a bark of laughter.
A grin spreads across my face, matching his.
“Alright, alright. That's fair. Clearly you like them older, so what does he have on you?” He pauses, using his fingers to count like a toddler. “Five? Ten? Twelve? Years on you?”
I'm twelve-years-old today!
The doorbell rings and excitement ripples through me as I make my way down the stairs. Dad was away on business, but he promised he'd be back in time for my birthday. He always was!
Swinging it open, my world stops, and my smile falls when I see a tall figure dressed in a leather coat and wearing a top hat.
“Hello, Ivanya,” the man says, his voice gravelly. He smells of burned flesh and Gin.
“Um.” I peek around his shoulder, noticing a black car with dark windows. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” he says, his voice rough. “I am afraid I am here to take you to your father.”
“Dad?” I perk up. Dad doesn’t have friends, but the ones he does have are business partners. They wear suits and ties, not trench coats and top hats. My skin prickles.
“I don’t think so…” The nanny has probably retreated to her bed for the day, after her fifteenth glass of Jack and Coke. I'm alone. All alone.
“He raised you right. Listen, how about you ask me something that only you and your father know? He and I were close. I can answer almost anything.”
I think over his barter. It seems reasonable. “But why isn’t he here himself?”
“He got caught up at an airport. They’re not allowing anyone to fly right now due to the hurricane, and that same hurricane has knocked all their power banks out, so he has no way of contacting you.” He doesn’t skip a word. No hesitation, eyes pinned on me. “You can take a look at the news if you like.”
“No.” I will not turn my back on this person, whoever they are. “No need. But today is my birthday, so he’s—”
—glistening gold takes up the space between us, with gems that wrap around each spike. “He thought he might have risked missing it, so he had it at the office just in case. I haven’t heard from him, but I’m sure he would like you to have it.”
Relief. He's telling the truth.
I pluck the tiara off him, squeezing it to my chest. “Where are we going?”
Silence, before answering. “Some place nice. You will be well looked after.”
Pulling myself out of memory lane, I swing off the stool, rounding the island on my way to the cabinet tucked in the corner. I made damn sure to know where all the alcohol is kept. You know, for reasons other than marrying a man I wasn't in love with.
Popping the cork on a bottle of red, I pluck a wide goblet and pour generously. “Twenty. He has twenty years on me.” Smart ass.
His grin stretches so big I can see every damn one of those perfect teeth. “Twenty? Holy shit,” he says, pushing off the counter and moving closer. He props himself against the island, crossing his ankles all casual-like. “So exactly how old are you, then?”
“Not very good at math, huh?” I raise a brow over the rim of my glass, sighing as I take the first sip. “Twenty-eight. Which will make me… what? Ten years older than you?”
He rolls his head back, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. “She's got jokes. I can't say I've ever had to tell someone my age, but no, I'm not eighteen.”