Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 46943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
“Okay, I get it,” the brunette panted softly, still angry. “But why didn’t you tell me? What was the point of this charade? Did you not trust me or something?”
And this was going to be the hard part.
“Of course I trust you,” I said, warmth in my eyes. “But honey, when women get a whiff of how much I’m worth everything changes. It’s hard to describe but there’s a breed of women in Manhattan who are all about the money. I could be a complete fuck, treat them like shit, and they wouldn’t care so long as I gave them an allowance, bought them clothes and jewelry, set them up in an apartment. They’re after one thing only, and it’s called cold, hard cash.”
She paused for a moment.
“And you thought I might be one of them?” she asked tightly.
I shrugged.
“Honestly, yeah. I’ve gotten burned from experience, I’m thirty-five now, it’s not like I’m an untrained newbie going out on a couple dates, getting my dick wet for the first time. These women are all over Manhattan, and the minute they get a whiff of a dude like me, the claws come out, they’re in it to win it.”
Laurie paused, thinking.
“But what does that have to do with me?” she asked again, tilting her head to the side, eyeing me speculatively. “Why did you have to ‘test’ me?” she said neutrally. “I live in a tiny walk-up on the Lower East Side, I’m poor, it’s obvious.”
And that was it exactly.
“Honey, you’re assuming that the only women with their claws out are rich bitches, women with designer clothes and shoes, skinny and mean. But the fact is that women of all stripes, of all economic means are after me. Trust me, I’ve had poor women come after me too, girls who worked as nannies, who were struggling students. Just because you’re poor doesn’t make you a saint.”
And something changed in the brunette then.
“So you thought I could be one of them, that maybe I just wanted you for your bank account, huh?” she said softly. “Maybe I was just another girl out on the hunt.”
And I had to be honest.
“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “I mean, I’m thirty-five, I’ve been dating in NYC for decades now. Trust me, I know women.”
That final statement broke the camel’s back. Because all the light went out of my best girl’s eyes, her shoulders slumped, her vivacious energy shut off like a light socket gone dark. Instead, Laurie was subdued now, not meeting my eyes. She fingered the cuff of her blouse, biting her lip.
“Thanks Tucker, I get it,” she said softly, still not meeting my gaze. “I’ll let you get back to work now.”
I strode over to the brunette and grabbed her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me. But the brown eyes were shuttered, shielded, and gave nothing away, merely reflecting my own.
“Listen,” I growled. “This isn’t over, we’ll talk more when I get back tonight, alright? I promise.”
She nodded slightly before breaking free, smoothing her skirt and taking a deep breath.
“Sure, no problem,” she said with a slight smile. “I’ll see you at home okay?” And was it my imagination, or had Laurie’s lip trembled on the word “home”? But I couldn’t focus on that now, there were a million things to be done at work, investors were coming later today and we still had a shit-ton of prep to do. So I watched silently as the curvy girl left the conference room, slipping out and shutting the door quietly behind her. This wasn’t how I wanted to end the conversation but at the moment I didn’t have a choice. Come eight p.m., we were going to have a real conversation to set things straight, get everything in order … because Laurie was mine and that was that.
19
Laurie
I sat in the library, my laptop open on a huge, wooden desk, far from any other users. I typed in “Tucker McGrath” and held my breath as the machine hummed. And sure enough, a dozen results popped up.
“Internet billionaire bad boy does it again!” screamed one headline.
“Will McGrath break the new economy?” blared another.
And the worst: “Tucky Tuck gets his duck on with Laurel Hardy,” read the caption with a picture of Tucker, handsome and arresting, blue eyes piercing, in a tux with a beautiful woman on his arm. The skinny blonde was the opposite of me, ten miles tall, thin as a whip, with perfect make-up, perfect hair, her lips painted in a wide crimson smile.
And I died inside, absolutely shriveled up and withered to nothing. It was like Tucker had had been playing with me, stepping out of his “real” life to have some fun. Because the real Tucker seemed to be someone else completely. The “real” Tucker was a self-made entrepreneur with more money than God and a taste for fancy things, be it the latest sports car, luxurious yachts, or expensive vacations. And there were pictures of all this on the web, all of them with a different woman, a different perfectly made-up, camera-ready model with a set of manicured fingernails and a smiling, lipsticked mouth.