Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
He just wants sex.
Like I said—Ben is direct.
The head assistant comes back, rolling a rack full of clothes, all of which appear to be in my size, and her assistant follows, holding a tower of shoeboxes tucked under her chin. “That looks gorgeous, and I have just the shoe,” she says. She pulls out a simple black strappy sandal and fastens it for me.
“You’ve never asked me my size, and yet everything fits perfectly.”
She grins up at me from the floor. “That’s my job.”
“You’re really good at it.”
“Thank you. That is completely stunning.” She sweeps her arm in front of me, encouraging me out of the fitting room to show Ben.
He looks up from his phone and his expression is all business, the softness I saw when I tried on the black dress nowhere to be found. “We’ll take it.”
Chapter Eleven
During one afternoon on Bond Street, Ben has spent more on my wardrobe than I have in my entire life. I bought myself nice things back in New York, but I mixed them with cheaper stuff.
“Are we done now?” I ask as we exit Ralph Lauren, my feet aching and my hair looking like I’ve been wrestling alligators for the last couple of hours.
“Most women wouldn’t complain about shopping for a new wardrobe.”
“First, that’s sexist. Second, I’m not most women.”
“True on both counts. Now back to my office.”
“On a Sunday?” He doesn’t respond. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Don’t do that,” Ben replies. “Don’t ask permission to ask a question. It’s a waste of time. Does anyone ever say no when someone asks them if they can ask a question?”
“Jeez, you’re a stickler.”
“I’m efficient.”
I bend my arms and move them jerkily around like I’m pretending to be a robot. “Yes, sir,” I say in my best robot voice. I drop my arms and switch back into my normal tone. “What happens to the clothes when this weekend is over?” I ask.
When Ben finished choosing all the pieces for my weekend wardrobe, he simply handed over his business card, asked that everything be de-labeled and laundered, then delivered to my hotel. He hadn’t handed over a credit card or anything. I didn’t even know stores would do something like that. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it.
Ben glances down at his phone and then nods as his Range Rover pulls up across the street. “Is this a trick question?”
There is definitely more of a language divide than I expected there to be between me and the rest of London. Maybe it’s cultural? “No, I just wonder whether they’re on loan or I need to pay for them or . . .”
“I’ll pay for them. After, they’ll be yours to do with what you wish. If you don’t like them, I suggest you donate them.”
“I love them,” I blurt. “I was just wondering. It all feels a little . . . Pretty Woman.”
“Except you’re not a prostitute and this is reality.”
“True on both counts,” I say, echoing him. We reach the car, he holds the door open, and I climb inside. Is this reality, though?
I have to move a pile of papers off my seat so I can sit. Ben closes the door, rounds the trunk, and then slides in next to me. The driver pulls off; presumably, he knows where we’re going.
“Oh, good,” Ben says as he sees the papers in my hands. “There should be two sets there. One for you and one for me.” He takes the stack from me and flicks through them. They seem to be divided into separately stapled bundles. “These are yours.” He hands me three bundles and keeps three for himself. “The first one is information about me. The second one is information I’d like about you, and the third one is things we need to decide on.”
“Wow.” I clear my throat. “Efficiency is key,” I say, using my robot voice again.
I pull out the section titled “Tuesday Reynolds,” which looks remarkably similar to a college application. Name, date of birth, place of birth, parent(s) name, parent(s) age, parent(s) occupation. I turn the page. He’s a man who clearly likes details. The questions continue. Pets (breed, name, age, idiosyncrasies if applicable). I turn the page again. Favorite foods. Favorite books. The questions go on and on and on.
I put down the questionnaire for me and pick up one of the other packets. It seems just the same as the one I’m supposed to fill out, except this form has already been populated with details about Ben. “This seems very thorough.”
“Like I said, everything has to be perfect.”
“Is this a form you ask people to fill out a lot?” He can’t have prepared this form just for me. Thought and preparation went into this.
Perhaps he gives this to his potential girlfriends to see whether he wants to have dinner with them, and that’s why he doesn’t date—no one’s made the grade so far. I keep skimming through the pages, wondering whether I’ll uncover something interesting. Is there a section detailing his favorite sexual positions or penis length? I glance across at his crotch, catch myself, and focus back on the questionnaires.