Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement.
I grabbed my espresso, then went to the fridge to plop one of my coffee ice cubes into it, so I could chug it.
I hated espresso.
But my hangover wasn’t willing to wait for me to go out to get, or have someone deliver, one of my favorite mixed drinks.
“I’m assuming you are my new babysitter,” I said.
They had a look, all of them.
I had no idea where my father found them all, but they were all dressed well, with good posture, and that stern, disapproving look to them. Like it offended them on a personal level to be working for my father, like someone was forcing them to do it instead of paying them handsomely for the task.
It seemed like it didn’t matter how many of these guys I scared away, more were always at the ready.
“You could say that,” he agreed. “I’m Julian Flynn,” he said.
“I doubt you’ll be around long enough for me to learn that,” I said, reaching for my phone on the counter as it chimed time and time again.
New message from LaurieLoreCosmetics.
That sounded about right. Nothing got the attention of a company faster than a subpar review from someone with a few million followers.
I decided to let them sweat that, checking the comments on my most recent selfie from the night before.
It was all normal stuff. Both love and hate. Nothing strange.
Until my eyes found those two words that had my stomach dropping.
My dove.
I had a whole-body reaction to those words, my body stiffening as I clicked over to the poster’s profile.
There was no personal information, as usual. Just reposts of all of my posts with his own long, rambling diatribe about how I needed to stop ignoring him, how I didn’t know how good he could be for me.
Blah blah fucking blah.
I blocked that account, fully aware that doing so was like beheading a hydra. But I figured this would at least make his life more difficult.
“Are you listening?” the bodyguard asked, making me glance up from under my lashes.
“No,” I admitted. I hadn’t even been aware he’d been speaking.
It wasn’t rudeness on my part, per se. It was just that anytime I saw those words—my dove—it created this ringing in my ears that drowned out everything else.
“Charming,” he scowled.
“Your room is down the hall,” I said, waving toward the hall I’d just emerged from. There were only two bedrooms. Originally, there had been three, but I’d taken one over as a walk-in closet. It wasn’t like I needed guest space. No one stayed over.
When I looked up again, I saw the bodyguard glancing around the open space.
There wasn’t much in life I loved quite as much as my penthouse.
While the floor-to-ceiling windows were tinted to keep too much heat out, they still managed to soak the place in sunshine.
It was a very white space. White paint on the walls, white fireplace, white-washed hardwood floors, off-white sofas around my glossy, round, ash wood coffee table.
There was a white dining table and chairs that separated the living and kitchen.
The kitchen was all white cabinets and quartz countertops.
It wasn’t everyone’s thing, but I found the white to be clean and comforting.
I couldn’t help but wonder, though, what this man thought as he looked at it.
Cold. Sterile.
I’d heard those things more than a few times in the past.
Whatever.
It wasn’t their house.
It wouldn’t be his for long, either.
No one ever lasted. There was no reason to believe this one would.
I waited for him to disappear, then made my way down the hall as well.
My bedroom continued the white aesthetic. My king-sized bed was white and tufted, the bedsheets off-white linen, even the carpet was mostly white with a light tan pattern.
Moving through my room into my bathroom, I found more quartz, a massive soaking tub, and a walk-in shower.
Walking in front of the mirror, I yanked off my sleep mask, then reached for my makeup wipes, cleaning up the mess of my liner, mascara, and lipstick. Finished with that, I ran a brush through my tangles before pulling my hair up and away from my face.
I just wanted to go get some good coffee.
But I’d already missed my nighttime skincare routine, so I took the extra five minutes to get my morning one done, leaving my skin dewy and fresh looking. You’d never know I’d spent the night dehydrating myself.
I brushed my teeth then went into my closet to grab an outfit.
There was no choice to just throw on yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Not when I was leaving the house. Not when every private citizen was now practically a paparazzo, snapping pictures, dragging you in the caption, then shamelessly tagging you when you looked the slightest bit less put-together than usual.
I still cringed when I remembered the pictures someone had snapped of me as a teenager, right after I’d walked in on my boyfriend cheating on me. Makeup running, nose red, eyes puffy.