Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I should be annoyed by this but I’m not. I put myself in this situation because my desire to touch her outweighed my reluctance to open up.
At least about my family. I feel pretty safe talking about that because I don’t think they have a damn thing to do with my… shall we say… reluctance to trust anyone on my team.
Livia may think differently though, and I anticipate she will poke and prod every angle. In the end, she’ll probably be disappointed by my full acceptance of that part of my life.
She’s sitting in one of the chairs already, notepad on her knee, pen in hand. She’s wearing a pair of workout leggings in jet black that show off her long, toned legs, and a three-quarter-zip hoodie in matching black with the Wildfire logo and orange and green stripes down the sleeves. Her hair is in a high ponytail and she’s got on a light layer of mascara. Far different from the way her face was done up at the club, but surely she knows she’s so beautiful she doesn’t really need anything.
She smiles at me when I come in but other than the obvious welcome within it, her expression gives absolutely nothing away.
Livia gestures to the chair. “Good morning.”
“You moved the furniture,” I say.
“I did.”
“So you can stare deep into my eyes to discern if I’m telling you the truth?”
She chuckles. “Oh, I know you’re going to tell me the truth.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Because you’re already honest in your desire to not let anyone in. The fact you’re agreeing to a tiny peek means you’re willing to show me the truth.”
“Hmm.” I take the chair and slouch backward, stretching one leg out to the side.
The chairs are close enough we could touch and I can’t help but think of the fact my hand was between her legs last night and she came on my fingers.
I wonder if she’s thinking about that.
She uncaps her pen. “Let’s get down to business.” Apparently not. “First, I want to thank you for coming.”
“We had a deal.”
“We did.” She looks at me with steady calm. “I want to start somewhere simple. Tell me about where you grew up.”
I look her directly in the eye so she can see I’m engaged. “You already know… Boston.”
“What part?”
“Beacon Hill.”
She scribbles some notes. I have no idea what there is to write about Beacon Hill but what do I know. “Tell me about your family home.”
“Four floors. Brownstone. Been in my father’s family for three generations.”
“So, old money.”
“Yes.”
She nods, makes another note. “Tell me about your father.”
I shift in the chair. “He manages the family holdings. Investments, real estate, a few legacy business interests. He’s good at it.”
“Meaning he devoted a lot of time to it.”
“Meaning it was what he did.” I keep my voice even. “It’s what the men in this family do. You take the helm when it’s passed to you and you run it. That’s the expectation and he met it.”
“Are you going to take the helm one day?” she asks, and that surprises me.
Not one single person has ever asked me that question, not even my father.
“That would be a no,” I say with a caustic laugh.
“Because it doesn’t interest you?” she asks.
“Because I don’t interest my father,” I clarify.
She studies me, tapping her pen on her notebook. “Surely you know my next question… why wasn’t he interested in you?”
“You’d have to ask him that,” I tell her sincerely. “I personally have never had a meaningful conversation with him where I could figure out why he had no interest in his son.”
Livia’s chin pulls inward and I can see the empathy on her face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I reply, holding her gaze.
“Do you have siblings? Were they more to his interest?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Just me.”
Livia scribbles, forehead scrunched, and I can see she’s perplexed about him.
So am I, Livia. So am I.
She looks back up, her words hopeful, expectation on her face. “What about your mother?”
“I think she likes me even less than my father does,” I say, and Livia’s jaw drops.
“I’m… I’m sorry…” She glances at her notes, as if there’s an answer in there to the million questions I can see flitting across her expression. Her gaze comes back to me. “What’s wrong with her?”
Livia’s gone out of professional mode. I can hear it in her tone, she dislikes my mom and she doesn’t know a thing about her.
I lift a shoulder. “She was twenty-two when she married my dad. He was forty-one. She was a trophy wife, I guess you’d say. I heard them arguing once that the only reason she got pregnant with me was because he needed an heir.”
“But… you said your dad hasn’t shown any interest in you, so did he really want an heir?”