Parker S. Huntington

Just as I expected, he turned our home into a library. Every inch of wall space is covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves. The living room. The halls. The theater room. Even his study. My legs carry me from room to room at the speed of light. Though I hurry about it, my eyes don’t miss a thing. How he catalogued everything by genre, by spines, exactly the way I envisioned it. Horror and mystery in the study. Travel and cooking in the kitchen. Romance and erotica in the bedroom

I was pussy-whipped.

“You’re rich. We get it.” She yawned. “The only billionaires I like are fictional.”

Why did it take me until today to realize I enjoyed her voice? Her sound? Her general existence?

I was in love with Dallas Costa.

In love with her, with the ground she walked upon, with her laugh, with her freckles, with her obsession with books, her messiness, her joy, her unapologetic personality.

Every bit and piece of her, I adored.

“I want you more than I want my next meal. My next sleep. My next breath. But I cannot afford you, Shortbread. Giving in to you just might kill me.”

“Our room.”

“Our room?” I pulled back, staring at him, wide-eyed.

“I am fucking done asking permission to see you every night. You’re moving in. Starting now.”

“You feel more fondness for a Cheetos bag than you do for your father.”

“To be fair, a Cheetos bag will never do me wrong.”

“It would never hand me over to a complete stranger for marriage. The worst it can do is stain my fingertips orange.”