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River eases back, not seeming remotely upset. “Okay.” He licks his lips, looking at me carefully. “As you say. I’ll draw the contracts up.”
“Shouldn’t we get a lawyer to do it?”
He rolls his eyes. “I am a lawyer. I specialized in real estate and contract law. My day-to-day job just doesn’t call for those skills very much.”
My eyebrows jump up. “Oh! Sorry.”
He gives me a small smile, pulling a fancy pen and a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “Let’s get down to the nitty gritty.” He starts making a list in neat block letters. “Two orgasms guaranteed every single time we fuck. We keep it up for six months, or until you’re pregnant, whichever comes first. And in exchange…” He writes it down quickly. “Four pre-wedding events. Dinner with my family once per month for the length of the agreement. And I can tell anyone that I deem important that we are engaged.”
I swallow, my pulse still racing from his touch. “Can I add something?”
River looks up. “Of course. Anything.”
“Flowers. Once a week, you’ll bring me flowers. Just so that it doesn’t feel so transactional between us.”
I feel a little stupid for saying it, but I don’t want him to become a task to be checked off. I don’t need romance, but I do want pizzaz.
He smiles and nods, then adds that. “Flowers once a week. You got it. I think that we’ll keep the exchange going for as long as it takes you to get pregnant… or six months maximum, at the outside. Sound good?”
My lips twitch. I hold out my hand. River takes it without hesitation.
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Taylor.”
His eyes shine with promise. “It will be, Ms. Brown.”
Nine
River
Istand in my living room and cast my gaze around at the tall piles of blue plastic moving crates crammed with books and art that dominate the space. There is a soft, brown leather couch that is pushed into the far corner. Unsurprisingly, there are more crates stacked haphazardly atop it, poised to cascade to the floor at any moment.
Every room in my house is crowded with randomly placed towers of crates. All except the spartan bedroom and the bare bones office. The two rooms I use the most.
You would think that I had just moved in yesterday, given the state of the house. But in reality, I’ve lived here for going on eighteen months now. My maid service comes in once a week and diligently dusts and vacuums around the crates. They’ve never said a thing, though I’m sure that they have some opinions.
The thing is, I don’t really care about where I live. This multimillion-dollar beach house serves as a place to sleep and occasionally work. That’s it.
But right now, as I’m waiting for Pearl to get here, I wish like anything that I had at least a couch for both of us to sit on.
She texted me this morning with, I’m ready to meet and talk more. Your place this time? And I quickly agreed.
But as I tried to prepare for Pearl’s arrival, I realized that I was feeling a bit unprepared.
What will Pearl think when she walks into my house? At best, she’ll be unimpressed with how I live. That thought unsettles me for some reason.
I spend about five minutes clearing the plastic crates off the couch and stacking them against one wall. After dragging the hulking leather sofa into the middle of the room, I look around.
Sad? Yes. But maybe Pearl will overlook the sadness of the sofa in favor of the big bay windows that look out onto the beach.
The doorbell startles me. I dust myself off as I jog to the back door. I’m nervous, but I can’t figure out why. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since the trailer. My last couple of days were Pearl-less, but I admit to having dreams about today.
I’d present her with the contract. She’d sign it. Then we’d fuck on top of the pages and smear the ink everywhere.
It’s just Pearl, I tell myself. Chill out.
I fling open the door. There she is, looking as pretty as a picture in a gray wool coat, and a blue and white striped shirt dress. My very first instinct is to look down at her cleavage, where I can see the edges of a lacy white bra.
Holy shit. This woman is so fucking hot. She has that girl next door thing going on and it’s driving me wild. I grip the door hard and try to compose my face into anything but a grimace. “You made it,” I manage to say.
