Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Speaking of which …
“I thought you wanted your own room, but Daniil just spent an hour moving all your stuff from the guest room to the master.”
“Changed my mind. Your closet is bigger”—she steps into my space and runs her hands along my biceps—“and your bathroom is nice. Feel free to move to the guest room if you wish.”
Ahh, so this is the game she’s playing. Torture me in my own home until I’ve had enough and I regret my decision to force her to marry me. What she doesn’t realize is that I lived with my mom for the past several years since my father was killed, and since she had to keep a low profile, she resorted to online shopping, filling the house up with too much random shit.
“I’m good,” I tell her. “Since we didn’t make it to dinner last night, I’ve rescheduled for brunch this afternoon, and I’d appreciate you accompanying me.”
“Are you asking or demanding?” she asks.
“Depends on what your answer is.”
She sighs. “Whatever. I don’t have anything else going on anyway. I already got my workout in.”
I drag my gaze from her face down her body and notice she’s still in her workout attire—a tiny light-blue sports bra that shows off the swell of her tits and matching leggings that wrap around her thighs and ass like cling wrap. The woman is fucking gorgeous, but more than that, she’s in shape.
“How often do you work out?”
“Every day.”
“Damn, that’s commitment.”
“I have nothing else to do.” She shrugs. “Might as well do something that benefits my health.”
That’s the second time she’s insinuated that she’s bored.
“Didn’t you go to college?”
Her shoulders tense. “Yeah. So?”
“Did you graduate?”
I should know this, but her education wasn’t really a priority when I was doing my research on the Antonov family.
“Yes,” she spits. “With a degree in accounting, and I got my MBA online as well while I was in Russia. I also took and passed the CPA exam when I returned to the States. Any other questions?”
“No need to get defensive,” I say, shocked by her choice of degree.
“Brielle,” Daniil calls out. “Do you want your jeans hanging or folded?”
“Hanging,” she replies with a huff. “Jesus, what crazy person folds their jeans?”
She disappears upstairs to no doubt redo everything they’ve done while I’m left wondering about the conundrum that is my future wife, starting with why a woman with her degree isn’t working for her family’s business.
Choosing to give her some space, I head to my office to get some work done and then to the private gym I had built in my house to get a workout in. When time has run out and I have to shower and get ready for brunch, I head upstairs.
When I walk into the bedroom, all the boxes are gone, and I think maybe I was wrong and she wasn’t trying to play games, until I open the closet door and find her shit has overtaken the entire room. Dresses, skirts, shirts, jeans take up every inch of space aside from the corner, where she’s pushed all my clothes together.
Above and below the hanging racks are hundreds of pairs of shoes—from heels to sandals to workout shoes. I count at least three dozen pairs of tennis shoes. Who the fuck needs this many pairs of workout shoes? Most of them don’t even look like they’ve been touched.
I close the door and walk into the bathroom so I can shower, only to stop in my tracks when I find shit all over the counters. Lotions, makeup, hair products. It looks like a fucking Sephora in my bathroom.
I open the cabinet, ready to shove it all underneath, only to find it’s full of her shit. The woman isn’t just a shopper. She’s addicted to shopping. Nobody needs this much stuff.
“Excuse me,” Brielle hisses, poking her head out of the shower, which I didn’t even notice was running, too distracted by my bathroom being overrun with crap. “Have you ever heard of personal space?”
Since my shower is doorless, with only a glass pane separating her from me, I have the perfect view of everything from the waist up. Her hair is covered in product, her face free of all makeup. Her body is wet, water sluicing down her overheated flesh, and her nipples are erect from the cool air.
Every time I’ve seen her, she’s always been put together. Even when she works out, she has some kind of makeup on. But right here, she’s stripped down, all natural, and she’s never looked sexier.
I take a step forward, my cock guiding my movements, but I’m stopped when she says, “Don’t even think about it. I meant it—what happened this morning changes nothing and it won’t be happening again.”
My future wife clearly likes to play games, and while I’m not usually one to do so, playing with her seems like it could be fun.