Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Nine inches? Really? No wonder I still had vivid dreams about our hookups.
“For the last time, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Very well.” He leaned over the bar and plucked a cognac bottle and two clean glasses, slamming them between us. “I’ll find out myself.”
An hour earlier.
I was sitting in Whitehall & Baker LLP’s conference room, discussing my favorite subject in the entire world, provisions (other P’s, like pussy and poker, came at a close second), when my world exploded into miniscule particles.
“Mr. Whitehall? Sir?”
Joanne, my PA, burst through the door, her usually tamed gray curls wild, her reading glasses askew. I looked up from Cillian, Hunter, and the rest of the board of Royal Pipelines.
“As you can see, Jo, I’m in a meeting.” Americans were a notoriously uncouth and unnecessarily dramatic bunch, but this was unbecoming.
“It’s an emergency, sir.”
That, of course, was impossible. Emergencies belonged to other people, with things to lose. I had very little family and a handful of friends. Most of them were currently in the room with me, and if I were honest, I wouldn’t lose a limb to save one. Or even a night of full sleep, for that matter.
I lazed in my recliner, tossing my pen on the desk. “What’s the matter?”
Panting, Joanne put a hand to her chest, shaking her head.
“It’s a phone call,” she wheezed. “Personal.”
“Who from?”
“Your family.”
“Don’t have one. Try again.”
“Your mother begs to differ.”
Mum?
I spoke to my mother twice a week. Once on Saturday morning and then again on Tuesday. Our phone calls were planned by our respective PA’s, and we hardly steered away from that arrangement. Naturally, my interest was piqued.
Cillian and Hunter, who sat on either side of me, flashed me curious looks. I’d never whispered a peep to them about my family life. Partly because said family life was a massive shite show. Not that the Fitzpatricks were at risk of winning any Brady Bunch awards, but privacy was crucial to me.
“Tell her I’ll call her back.” I impaled Cillian with a glare that said, continue.
Joanne didn’t leave her spot by the door.
“Sorry, Mr. Whitehall, sir. I don’t think you understand. You need to take this call.”
Hunter cracked his neck loudly, rolling it left and right. “Just take the damn call so we can all move on with our daily plans. I have shit to do.”
“Daily plans?” I marveled. The man was about as productive as a grave robber in a crematorium. “You can wank in the loo. I have a private one in my office.” I frisbeed the key into his hands. The little prat was the best-looking man I’d ever seen outside of a Marvel movie. Fittingly, he also possessed the intellectual capabilities of a torn movie poster. Although it had to be said, marriage agreed with him. I still wouldn’t put him in charge of any nuclear research facility, but at the very least, he wasn’t a reckless sod anymore.
“Ha.” Hunter threw the key back at me. “Go tend to your business before my fist tends to your face.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Hunter’s right,” Cillian drawled, dripping boredom. “Get it over with. Some of us have responsibilities that stretch beyond choosing who to sleep with tonight.”
It was pointless to tell them I’d already chosen Allison Kosinki. She was expected at my flat at eight-thirty.
“Go!” they roared in unison.
With a healthy dose of irritation, I followed Joanne’s hurried footsteps to my office.
“How’re the kids, Jo?”
“Very well, thank you, Your Honor. I mean, Your Highness…” People always got flustered around a royal. Even if they worked with them on a daily basis. “Are you well?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Good. Just remember we’re here for you.”
Uh-huh. No good news was ever received after “we’re here for you.”
Joanne opened the door for me then scurried back to her station, avoiding eye contact.
I glared at the switchboard for a beat.
Someone had better be terribly injured, or even better—dead.
I grabbed the receiver but didn’t say anything. I waited for Mum to make the first move.
“Devvie? Are you there?”
“Mummy.” The term of endearment wasn’t my favorite—it made me sound like a four-year-old—but posh people, unfortunately, oftentimes spoke like they were still in diapers.
“Oh, Devvie. I am devastated! Are you sitting down?”
Still on my feet, I looked around my office, which was designed in an old-fashioned manner—coffered ceiling, built-in cabinetry, a large executive desk. “Yes.”
“Papa passed away tonight.”
I waited to feel something—anything—in light of the news that my father kicked the bucket. But for the life of me, I couldn’t.
Edwin Whitehall had spent the majority of my childhood reminding me that I wasn’t enough. He left me no choice but to run away from my homeland, my country, and denied me the most basic privilege of all—choosing my own wife.
No part of me mourned his death, and even if I’d kept a close relationship with Mum and Cecilia, he’d refused to see me until I married Louisa Butchart, to which I responded, don’t threaten me with a good time.