Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
That’s right… Dicklan would never understand that it’s impossible to keep my head above water on minimum-wage jobs and high housing costs. He’s so out of touch with the common man, from where he rules from his throne atop the Blackwood Vegas, that he’d never understand that a simple ‘good morning’ can mean a lot to someone in my situation.
A woman who has to hold down three jobs to pay off a debt that isn’t even hers while caring for her two disabled parents, I mean. I’d give anything for him to spend five minutes in my shoes. I bet His Royal Prissy Pants would be crying in less than four.
I spend time dusting the expensive furniture, devoid of any personal decorations or knickknacks, which makes my job easier. I’ve heard Dicklan doesn’t stay in one place more than a few years before moving on, ensuring his hotel is in peak condition before turning it over to a manager. I guess it explains the lack of personalization in this penthouse suite. Rumor says it will go for close to four thousand a night after he vacates the premises.
That type of wealth boggles my mind.
Four grand a night to stay in a bed. Have a fancy espresso machine at your fingertips. Have the softest toilet paper to wipe your butt.
I’d kill to be able to make four grand a month at a job. Most people would.
After dusting, I make my way into the kitchen and start to clean. Of course, Dicklan left his dirty dishes out just two feet from the empty dishwasher. I bet he’s never loaded one in his life.
I replace the cover on the fruit bowl before putting it back in the fridge. Nabbing the dirty fork and empty coffee cup, I turn toward the dishwasher.
“You can leave the cup out,” I hear from behind me.
I usually don’t startle easy, but the deep voice that belongs to Declan Blackwood is right behind me. He’s so close I feel his breath on the back of my neck. It’s bare because I pulled my hair into a bun, which the job requires.
I whirl to find six-foot-five inches of solid, practically naked, muscled man. His hair is wet and slicked back, water droplets on his shoulders. As I do a quick rake down past a ridged abdomen, I follow a dark trail of hair starting below his navel and snaking down to a minuscule white towel around his waist.
There is no missing the bulge—not an erection—just a lot of big stuff beneath that towel pressing against the damp confines.
My face flushes hot as I whirl back around. “Of course, Mr. Blackwood.”
Dicklan.
“Can I have my cup please?” he asks. I’m surprised to hear “please” come out of his mouth. He certainly doesn’t have to use it with me.
At that moment, I realize I have the mug and dirty fork clutched to my chest like a maiden who’s never seen a half-naked man before.
Because I have.
But not one like the Blackwood heir.
Holy cow, he’s hot.
Beyond hot.
Is he really packing that much… size… beneath that towel?
I take in a breath, pivot back his way, and hold the cup out while resolving to maintain eye contact.
For a moment, he merely studies me, seeming to pay close attention to my face—surely noting the stain of blush still there—before asking, “What’s your name?”
I try to give the man some credit. My name tag is pinned to my chest. He could have looked himself, but maybe he didn’t want me to think he was staring at my breasts? He could just be lazy, not wanting to make an effort. Perhaps he is just demanding.
“Bailey, sir,” I reply demurely. “Bailey Robbins.”
“Hmm.” Not even a ‘pleased to meet you’. Just a low hum in his throat as if he found my name slightly interesting, but he couldn’t be bothered to form a polite reply.
Finally, he takes the cup out of my hand. I immediately move to the far side of the kitchen to wipe down the counters. Blackwood moves to the espresso machine and brews another cup, but I refuse to look his way. It’s with relief that he takes his brewed cup and moves back into the living room, supposedly on his way back to his bedroom to put on some damn clothes.
I finish scouring down the counters, sink, and stovetop, then wipe the fronts of the cabinets and fridge. Just as I’m finishing, I hear Blackwood on his phone, voice coming from the direction of the living room. I move to the left, enough to see inside, and oh my God… he’s still in a towel, but now sitting on the couch.
And when I say sitting, I actually mean sprawling.
Long, muscular legs stretched out and slightly spread, not enough I can see under that towel, but enough to spot a dark shadow between his legs. If he were to spread them any farther, he’d give me a show. He has one arm casually draped over the back cushions, the other holding his phone before his face.