Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“I’ll be right down. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed. We barely made it into the suite before we started tearing our clothes off each other.”
Her gag is audible. It is all the proof I need that she hasn’t mixed up my husband’s reservation with another man. “Wonderful. I’ll see you soon.”
I farewell her before opening my recently called list and copying and pasting her number into the Safari app. It shows the details of a hotel built in the last twelve months.
It is fancy but not as expensive as its counterparts since it is miles from the strip, which is odd since its advertisement continually states it is “discreet for all guests.”
As my eyes bounce between the hotel’s no-pet policy and Tempy, I try to think of a solution. Tempy loves our home as much as I do, but I don’t trust Roy enough not to wonder if this is a ploy for him to dognap my beloved baby.
I’d hand over everything I own without a single gripe if he granted me full custody of Tempy.
Roy knows this, so I can’t leave myself vulnerable to attack.
A smirk tilts my top lip when a brilliant idea smacks into me. “Do you want to go see Nanny?”
Mrs. Gessler loves Tempy. She spoils her rotten with homemade dog biscuits and often buys her bones bigger than her tiny frame. She’s offered to babysit Tempy numerous times in the past six years, so I’m sure she’d love to babysit Tempy for an hour or two this evening.
When Tempy barks before spinning in a circle, I collect her leash from the coat rack, stuff my feet into the only heels in the coat room, and then race through the frosted glass door of my home like the bottom half of my outfit isn’t impersonating dental floss.
2
MIRANDA
Tempy is with Mrs. Gessler. Roy’s outstanding bill was paid with the debit card he failed to tell me about when we merged assets, and I’m so burned up with adrenaline that no matter how large I make the gap in my coat, I feel seconds from death by dehydration.
It’s winter! Did Vegas not get the memo?
When the elevator arrives on the floor of the honeymoon suite, I dip my chin in farewell to the man who entered with me in the lobby before I slowly exit.
Air whistles from his nose when he takes a final gawk of my six-inch-high stilettoes. The shoes I haven’t worn since Valentine’s Day three years ago have him convinced I am a paid escort.
No, I’m not hypothesizing.
He asked me my hourly rate before stumbling out that he’d double the fee the guest I was about to visit paid and purchase him a replacement escort so there’d be no hard feelings.
“Though I doubt I’ll ever find him someone as tempting as you,” he said while trying to woo me with both money and a confidence boost. “Perhaps I should send him a handful of the women who liaise with the guests here every evening?”
That’s when it dawned on me why this hotel is so exclusive.
Not every room is booked out at a nightly rate.
Some are reserved per hour.
The swirls the knowledge hit my stomach with should have been my cue to leave. I wouldn’t have hesitated if I hadn’t recalled the prenuptial agreement Roy had me sign an hour before we exchanged vows. He is ten years my senior, so at the time, he was also more successful than me.
Our prenup is extremely in favor of him.
There’s only one way I can tip the needle.
I need solid proof that he is having an affair. An infidelity clause was the only one I got approved.
Now I know why Roy fought so hard to have it expunged.
From the noises bellowing out of the honeymoon suite as I approach it, I’m mere seconds from securing enough proof to bury Roy and his unfair marriage contract.
With my body temp too high to function normally, I undo the final button of my trench coat and fan it open before I swipe the room keycard across the electronic lock.
It buzzes green for half a second before I push down on the latch.
I remain quiet, not wanting to startle Roy into an amicably neutral pose a divorce attorney could construe as friendly.
The honeymoon suite is massive. A living room with a grand piano hogs most of the space, only slightly overshadowed by a mini kitchen squashed against one wall.
I understand its minuscule design. Who wants to cook when on their honeymoon? I certainly wasn’t interested. Roy was just too cheap to mimic my logic.
The reminder of his stingy ways has me increasing the length of my strides. I dart through the living room, giving the opulence only a small snippet of attention before taking the spiral staircase that leads to the loft two stairs at a time.