Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 20030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 100(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 100(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
And what I found out has me thinking I must indeed be mad to even consider such an impossible thing could work.
Mr. Almost Perfect—or rather, Wynd Sullivan—is a billionaire.
A billionaire!
Not just that, but he's also one of Texas' most successful and eligible bachelors.
Why in the world is a man like him looking for a child to adopt? Couldn't he just, I don't know, make one himself?
Everyone stares at me as I make it to the penthouse where his office is located. The elevator's mirrored walls reflect my image back at me: huge dark glasses covering equally dark eye bags, sunshine-bright dress standing out like a highlighter against the sea of black suits and pressed white shirts. I'm a walking contradiction in this sterile temple of steel and glass.
I enter the boardroom, and he's already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows like some kind of golden god backlit by the morning sun.
Wynd turns to face me, and my breath catches. He really looks like an angel, with the sun even playing to his favor as it creates a halo-like ring around the blond locks of his hair. Honestly, I'd be completely convinced he's a celestial being...if not for the glacial hardness of his gaze.
"Good morning, Star."
His voice is elegantly precise as always. And calculating. But what shocks and shames me is how the sound actually makes my nipples tighten behind the soft cotton of my dress. I automatically cross my arms over my chest in a bid to conceal this—
Oh no.
Did his eyes just gleam? Has he actually figured out what I desperately tried to hide from his gaze?
Argh!
"Please take a seat."
His secretary pulls out the chair at the opposite end of the table, and I'm already shaking my head.
Nuh-uh.
There's no way we can talk properly like that, and I look at the woman apologetically. "Would it be okay to have me seated a little closer? I'm not sure I'll be able to hear him clearly from so far away."
"Of course."
It's the billionaire who answers me instead, and I nearly jump out of my skin at suddenly finding him next to me. He places a hand on the small of my back, and I have to bite my lip really hard to keep from gasping, with the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of my dress as he guides me to the chair adjacent to his.
I know it's silly.
I really do.
But I can't help it.
This is the first time any man has touched me like this, and I...I like it.
More than I should.
"Would you like anything to drink?"
"Coffee would be wonderful," I manage to say.
His secretary excuses herself to make our coffee, and I barely manage to bite back another gasp when Wynd takes a seat, and our knees bump under the table.
"Apologies."
Our gazes meet, and even though there's nothing readable in the icy blue depths of his eyes, I have the strangest feeling he's apologizing for something he deliberately meant to do.
He seems to be the type to calculate everything, and that's honestly exhausting just thinking about it. I mean, I love counting money as much as the next person. Probably more, actually, since my job is all about tracing how, where, and when money disappears.
But to calculate anything and everything else? Things like the value of friendship, the cost of a promotion, or the faithfulness of someone's love?
Thanks, but no thanks.
His secretary returns with my latte and his Americano, and her brief reappearance allows me a chance to regain my composure and carefully swing my legs away from contact. When she leaves, the silence stretches tautly between us, and my stomach starts cramping. I take a sip of my coffee, but it does no good.
My discomfort grows, and so does my restlessness.
Is he just biding his time before saying something important?
Something like he's made a mistake, and he intends to fight me over—
"I hope the coffee's to your satisfaction?"
Never mind.
I think I'm just overthinking, and a smile of pure relief touches my lips. "It's very good, thank you." Delicious coffee, I can talk about all day, easy.
"Are you always this...appreciative?"
"I'm afraid so." I have a feeling he thinks being one hundred percent appreciative means being one hundred percent dishonest. I should probably feel offended, but silly me just finds it rather cute.
"I see."
Mm.
Does he really?
Or is he the one being dishonest this time?
"In any case..." He slides a tablet across the table toward me. "I have a few conditions—"
I start in my seat at his words, and he pauses and raises a brow, having noticed my surprise.
"W-We're really going through with this?"
"Why else would we be having this meeting?"
"I thought it was to tell me you'd changed your mind—"
"Ah."
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then lower, and my pulse shamelessly quickens when his gaze lingers on the modest neckline of my dress.