Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
June nods half a dozen times, her face still red from either our quickie in the bathroom or the embarrassment of Rupert hearing us.
After she turns and exits the kitchen, I face him and steal a cookie from the carton. Then I open it and lick it like he’s doing.
“It’s good practice, isn't it?” he says, winking at me.
I pause my licking, trying to figure out what he means that’s not perverted.
“How long can you go before you want the whole cookie?” He pops the rest of it into his mouth and grins while chewing.
“I’m sure I can go longer than you,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“June wasn’t here for more than a minute before you got into the cookie jar.”
“Respectfully, fuck you.” I eat the rest of the cookie because I don’t like how he’s watching me lick the frosting. It’s like he’s watching me have sex, ready to critique my skills. “When are you going to tell me what you do for a living?”
“Nothing. My wife is rich. I highly recommend marrying a woman who comes from a wealthy family. Then you can get a job, but you don’t have to make a living.”
“Then what’s your job?”
“That’s such a good question,” he says, continuing to stack the cookies. They’re halfway up the jar. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
“Why do you wear a suit every day?”
“Because I look good in a suit. Don’t you agree?” He glances up at me.
“I’m not an expert on suits. So I don’t know if that suit looks good on you.” I point to my neck. “You never wear your tie tight.”
“Callie likes it loose. Well, she used to anyway.”
“I’m going to the orchestra with June. You ever been?” I ask, leaning my backside against the fridge.
“Of course.”
“What did you wear?”
“A tux.”
“You have to wear a tux to the orchestra?”
“No.”
“Then what should I wear?”
“What’s June wearing?”
“I don’t know.”
He chuckles. “Well, find out. You decide what you’re wearing based on what she’s wearing. Is her outfit formal or semi-formal?”
“What if it’s formal?”
“Then wear a tux.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then rent one or buy one.”
I mumble an expletive under my breath.
“Don’t grumble at me. You asked.”
“What if it’s semi-formal?”
“Then wear a suit. But I’m guessing you don’t have one of those either.” He places the lid on the cookie jar. “I’d let you borrow one of mine, but it wouldn’t fit you.”
“Where’s the best place to get a suit or tux?”
“I don’t know. Look it up.”
I frown. “Where do you get yours?”
“Lorenzo comes to the house with swatches. Then he returns with my suit after he’s made it.”
“Who’s Lorenzo?”
“My tailor.”
“Can you give me his number?”
“I could, but despite your endless ‘respectfully, fuck you’ comments, I like you. And I don’t want you to embarrass yourself by calling my tailor, who will charge you north of ten grand for a suit. And he won’t have it ready in time for you to take June to the orchestra, unless the orchestra is in the fall. So, I think we’ll get you something off the rack. Or you can rent a tux.”
Monroe’s math might have me rich in six months, but I’m not there now. I’m still poor … and clueless.
Chapter Twenty-One
June
Callie’s asleep when I look in on her, so I slip into her room and let my eyes adjust. There’s just enough light filtering through her sheer curtains to reveal the photos on her wall, including the little blond boy with a wide, unguarded smile, the kind that punches right through your chest. I swallow hard, blinking back tears. I can’t imagine what must have happened.
Behind her armchair sits a turntable with records neatly slotted beside it. I flip through them.
“Do you like music?” Callie’s raspy voice startles me.
I spin around. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to snoop. Or wake you.”
Callie sits up, sliding her legs over the edge of the bed. “It’s nice to see you, again. Have you been here long?” She combs her fingers through her hair before standing and smoothing the soft pink cotton dress that hits just below her knees. A nightshirt, perhaps.
“Only a few minutes,” I say, resting my hands on the back of the chair. “And yeah.” I glance back at the records. “I love music.”
“What do you like to listen to?” she asks, padding closer as Loki jumps off the bed.
“Everything. But I have a soft spot for the cello.”
Her pale blue eyes widen. “So do I.” She slides past me and thumbs through the records. “I took cello lessons years ago, but I gave it up after we had our son. It’s brutal on your fingers.”
I stare at my left hand and the soft finger pads where calluses used to live.
She places a record on the turntable. “This is one of my favorites. It’s a unique mashup of classics from Bach and Beethoven with undertones of heavy metal. Metallica, mostly.”