Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Garment bags.
Not a ton of them, maybe enough for five or so outfits. There were also two bags from Agent Provocateur—a larger version of the one there’d been in Vegas.
“Of course,” I grumbled, going over toward them to reach inside.
I expected bras and panties, things that he’d conjured up in his fantasies.
Inside, though, were several pajama sets. Most weren’t even of the sexy variety—just silky shorts and camis, and even one long pant and long sleeve set. Plus a robe.
There were four or five panties at the bottom, but it did seem more like he’d mostly focused on getting me sleep clothes.
I exhaled hard, not sure what to think about what I’d found, so I chose instead to walk into the en suite bathroom.
It was another sprawling space. All marble floors and walls and a shower niche that was big enough for a soccer team. But the soaking tub was a major feature—a standalone in front of frosted windows, so you got a peek-a-boo effect.
Everything was set up to invite you to soak, too. Fluffy towels were set on a little table next to it, along with a few bath bombs and a loofah.
On the floating double vanity, I found an extra, wrapped toothbrush.
I reached for it, feeling a strange sinking sensation in my chest.
Was Harrison just… lonely?
Was he so lonely that he was setting up his life with the hope that I would, what, fall in love with the grandeur and agree to stay with him?
And because I was raised the way I was, I also wondered if that loneliness was dangerous.
With a sigh, I made my way back out into the common area.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when he looked up and saw me standing there.
“How desperate are you to have a wife?”
“Desperate?” he asked, brows knitting. “Not at all.”
“Oh, come on. The clothes, the bath bombs…”
“I can’t think of a way to say this that won’t make me sound like an elitist ass,” he stated, “but, sweetheart, don’t you think if I wanted a wife before now, I could have had one?”
Okay.
That was a reasonable argument.
He was, damn him, insanely handsome. He was unfathomably wealthy. He was considerate and capable. Men like him wouldn’t struggle to find women to settle down with, if that was what he was after.
“So you’re not just a sad, lonely dude who is desperate for companionship?”
“Do I seem sad, lonely, or desperate?” he asked.
“Ugh!” I snapped, throwing up a hand.
“Not the answer you were hoping for?”
“I could have felt bad for you if you were just lonely. Understood why you’re digging in your heels about this. But now, now you’re just a pain in the ass.”
“A pain in the ass who just made dinner. Join me?” he asked, waving toward the dining table.
Warning bells went off in my mind.
But maybe we could have a calm, rational discussion over a meal, and then he’d sign the damn papers.
Even as I sat down at the table, I knew it was nothing but wishful thinking.
Then, well, then things got away from me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“What?” Harrison asked when I set my fork down and glared at him.
“It’s not enough that you’re rich, educated, worldly, and handsome; you have to be a good cook too?”
A little chuckle escaped him at that.
“You think I’m handsome, huh?”
I rolled my eyes at that.
“Please, I wouldn’t have invited you back to my room if I didn’t think you were attractive.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Harrison’s eyes warmed as memories surfaced.
Heat bloomed through my core.
“So, can you only make pasta?” I asked, wishing my glass of water was wine all of a sudden.
“Not just pasta, no. But just about everything I know how to cook is Italian. Our housekeeper was Italian. She had seven siblings and six kids. The whole family got together in the summer to make enough pasta sauce to can for the year.”
“Are you close with her still?”
“We’re in contact. But she’s retired and spending time with her grandchildren now.”
“I bet she’s proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
“Eh, she’s not impressed by money. She’s forever on my ass about gaining weight, getting married, and having half a dozen babies.”
“Do you want half a dozen babies?”
“I want kids. But that sounds excessive. Especially if I continue living in the city.”
“Right. Because this place is so tiny,” I said, gesturing broadly. “What is the square footage of this place?”
“Just under six thousand square feet.”
“Wait… what? No way. With just the three bedrooms?”
“I think you missed part of the tour,” he said.
He pushed out of his seat and waited for me to do the same.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I fell into step beside him.
“This,” he said when he got to one of the doors in the hallway, “is a pocket door.”
He pushed the door into the wall between the study and the first bedroom.