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)
She cried, and I was glad to have given her something she needed—not that she needed a two hundred-thousand-dollar car, but now, at least when her shitty father sees her, it’ll be a slap in his face because fuck him for trying to screw over my best friend.
“Good evening,” Kane says calmly, making me jump.
He’s changed out of his suit into a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt, and I hate that he looks just as hot dressed down as he does dressed up.
When I glance behind him, the table is set up for two, complete with candles in the center.
“What’s this for?” I ask carefully, trying to gauge what kind of trap I’m walking into.
“Dinner.” He grins. “I’d like to say I made it, but I’m not the best cook, so I had the chef from The Terrace make it since you’d seemed to enjoy the food there.”
“Why?” I blurt out.
Kane quirks a brow. “Can’t I have a romantic dinner with my future wife?”
He steps over to the chair and pulls it out for me, and I walk over. Since I haven’t eaten dinner, I give in and have a seat, letting him push my chair in.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Kane asks, lifting the bottle.
“Is it poisoned?”
“No.” He chuckles. “Not unless you consider a bottle of 2009 Château Lafite Rothschild poison.”
He pours us each a glass and then takes a sip to prove I won’t keel over if I drink it.
“So, how was your day?” he asks, lifting the metal lid off his food.
It’s filet and lobster with risotto and it looks mouthwatering.
“It was good,” I tell him, playing along.
I’m starved, and I’d like to eat this delicious meal before we ruin it with an argument.
“What did you do?”
I glare his way, and he chuckles.
“Fair enough. You bought a new car. Though I’m surprised you bought a Nissan when you love your Porsche.”
“It wasn’t for me,” I admit, preparing for an argument. “I told you I was buying Nicole a maid-of-honor gift.”
Kane glances at me, his fork stilling. “You bought that car for Nicole?”
“Yep, she didn’t have a car, thanks to her asshole dad taking hers back, so I bought her one.”
A small smile graces Kane’s face. “That was very nice of you.”
He takes a bite of his food, and I balk at him in confusion.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? That was nice of me? I spent a quarter of a million on a car, and you’re not upset?”
“Princess,” he drawls, “I’m a rich man. I don’t give a shit what you spend my money on. If the credit card company hadn’t contacted me, I wouldn’t have even noticed. But the fact that you bought it for your friend, who needed a vehicle, instead of yourself shows me the type of person you are. You’re a good friend to Nicole.”
Uncomfortable with his compliment, I simply nod and start eating, unsure how to respond to him. He’s acting different tonight, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“Did you do anything else today?” he asks between bites.
“We, um … we looked at a wedding venue, at Nicole’s insistence, and then we went to Pilates.”
“One day, I’ll have to tag along and see what Pilates is all about,” Kane says conversationally.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” Kane tilts his head to the side. “You attend classes almost daily and clearly love it, so I’d like to know what it entails.”
I swallow a large sip of my wine, taken aback. Theodore never once took an interest in my love of Pilates. He just thought it was something rich, bored women did during the day.
“I have actually thought about owning my own studio,” I admit, unsure why I’m confiding in Kane. But since he’s here and—from what my brothers have mentioned—a good businessman, maybe he can help guide me in the right direction. “The Pilates studio I go to is for sale. When I reached out to the management company this morning, they told me they were accepting offers, so I had my attorney draw up a contract, not wanting to chance someone else buying it first. But this afternoon, they called to tell me it was no longer available.”
Sure, I can open my own, but having two Pilates studios in the same town would make it difficult, especially since the one I go to has such a good reputation.
“Did they counter?” Kane asks.
“No.” I take a bite of my filet, and it practically melts in my mouth. I wash it down with a sip of the wine, which is equally good. “They just said that they were no longer interested in selling it to me. I looked, and it’s still on the market, so maybe they realized who I was—that I was related to the Antonov brothers—and changed their mind.” As much as I love my brothers, sometimes, being linked to them kind of sucks.