Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“It’s entertaining.” I offer a smile.
“I can’t get Vera to read it. Maybe when we’re done, you can convince her.” He stands, tucking in his shirt.
So this will be a regular thing? Hunter Morrison is a peculiar man, and I’m here for all his rich man’s indulgences.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” I ask, returning the book to its spot on the shelf.
“You could slip this registration in the glove compartment of my Ferrari and put the new tag on the plate.” He slides a folded piece of paper across his desk. “Grab the keys by the door. They’re the ones with the Ferrari logo.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“And, Alice?”
“Yes?”
“Do you by any chance make bar soap?”
Sometimes I think there’s a hidden camera, and this is all a joke. In fact, I make a quick inspection of the corners of the room. He continues to challenge my composure. A giggle tries to work its way up my chest, but I swallow it back down and clear my throat. “Um … not yet.”
“If you do, avoid vanilla. I’m not a fan.”
I nod slowly.
“Thank you, Alice. Best nap of my life.”
“You’re welcome.”
I first toss the sheets into the washing machine, then I find the Ferrari keys and head down to the basement, where there’s a two-lane bowling alley, a second kitchen, and a theater room, along with two more bedrooms. Then I pull on the maple bookshelf to expose the hidden door to the underground garage, which doubles as a panic room. The ramp at the far end leads to the driveway. It opens, seemingly out of nowhere, straight to the main street. There are no words to describe the Morrisons’ lavish home.
After a few steps toward the car, I hear someone behind me and glance over my shoulder at Blair and Murphy holding hands.
“Are those my dad’s car keys?” Blair asks, nodding toward the key chain around my finger.
“Yes. He asked me to do something for him.” I continue toward the Ferrari.
“He’s not letting you drive his car, is he?”
I close my eyes and remember she has PMS brain and can’t be held responsible for her bitchiness.
Again, I stop. This time, I turn toward her.
“It doesn’t matter, come on,” Murphy says, pulling her toward their white SUV.
She wriggles out of his grip. “It does matter. He won’t let anyone drive his Ferrari. Not me. Not my mom. So if he’s letting you drive it, then there must be a reason.”
“Such as?” I don’t know why I feel the need to play her game. I just defended her to Murphy, and this is the thanks I get?
“My parents have been happily married for thirty years. Don’t mess with that.”
“I’m not. I think I make both of them happier than they were before me.” I wink.
Murphy bites his lips to hide his amusement.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Blair scoffs.
I hold up the registration. “I’m just putting this in the glove compartment, not going for a joyride.”
She deflates, dropping her gaze in embarrassment.
“Just say you’re sorry, and let’s go,” Murphy says.
“You don’t have to apologize. My dad cheated on my mom.” I pivot and continue toward the garage. “I’m not the woman who sleeps with another woman’s husband.”
At least, that’s not the plan.
Chapter Thirteen
Murphy
If you’re going to lie,
make it the best story ever told.
Eight Years Earlier …
Did I fuck another man’s wife? I hoped not.
I wasn’t a one-night-stand novice, but having sex with someone who was paying money to rent my place felt different. Alice felt different.
She was spontaneous and fun. Flirty and confident. But mostly, she was an enigma. Sometimes I wanted to figure her out, but other times I just wanted to revel in the wonder and curiosity she provoked. There was a certain level of satisfaction that came from not knowing everything about her, like staring at presents under the Christmas tree and having no clue what was inside them.
Why the diamond ring?
Why was she in Minneapolis for two weeks by herself with no obvious purpose?
Wine in the morning.
Steak as a late-night snack.
Offering to have sex with a man she just met.
My brain was shit. I had deadlines and no concentration. Sleep distracted me because I knew she was just below me, and I couldn’t stop wondering if she was awake, too, thinking about me.
The next morning, I stared at her through my window while the cursor on my computer blinked like a virtual tap on my shoulder.
Hello? Remember me? Your job?
The problem with Alice, and there were many, was the inexplicable feeling of familiarity I felt around her. More than déjà vu. More than instant attraction.
She sipped her coffee and curled her blond hair behind her ear, and then, out of the blue, but also with disturbingly accurate intention, she looked straight at me.
I hurled my body away from the window so quickly, the chair tipped over.