Page 75 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I shake my head, grinning. The girl's incorrigible. No shame whatsoever. But because I don't want the conversation to end there, I text,Tell me you're buying something for yourself too. I insist.
A few minutes pass before the phone vibrates again.
There's not much I want—and certainly nothing I need, since someone already filled up my closet with crap. But I did find these red Louboutin pumps.
I click the link. Fuck, they're hot. I imagine her sliding them onto her delicate feet, looking at me with those sultry eyes as she does it.
Then I imagine lifting her up, laying her gently on the couch, taking them off one at a time—massaging her feet, then moving up her legs, past her knees, to the soft warmth of her silky thighs…
And then, as if the universe heard me, her next message arrives: a photo of her feet in those red pumps over a pair of stockings.
Holy hell.
Just like that, I'm bricked up—my imagination racing, heart pounding.
I want her to be wearing exactly that the next time I fuck her.
I want those heels over my shoulders, scoring my back while I eat her out.
I want?—
"Grayson?"
I barely hear my name over the pulse in my ears. It sounds like it's coming from far away. I want to ignore it and let my eyes linger on the photo for a few more seconds, but when the call comes again, I drag my gaze away from my phone and meet my father's eyes.
"What?"
"What do you mean,what?" he snaps. "We called you three times."
"Why?"
"Are you even paying attention? This meeting is important."
"It's important for you and George. Everything that's being said, I already know—seeing as how I've been the CEO for the last decade, ever since you… retired from the role."
No need to dig up old ground or make it worse for him. Still, maybe he should be reminded who stepped in when he was ill—and just how much the Group has achieved under my leadership.
My father's lips press together, reminding me a little of Jenna, though he doesn't do it nearly as prettily. "You don't have to be difficult about this."
I snort. "Please. If anything, I should be more difficult. I was supposed to have lunch with my fiancée today, but thanks to you, I had to cancel. Now I'm stuck here in a meeting I don't even want to be at, listening to people drone on about shit I already know. I think I'm entitled to be more than a little irritated. If I want to text my fiancée during the meeting, I'm gonna do it—unless, of course, you'd rather I leave and go meet her instead, like I'd originally planned?"
My father practically gapes. He looks like he can't believe my audacity. But that's exactly the problem.
I realize it now—though why I haven't before, I really can't imagine. Maybe it's Jenna. Seeing my family through her eyes has given me a new perspective. Maybe not a kinder one, but definitely a clearer one. We've all let him have his way because… well, because he's Pops. The legend. The self-made man who came to America with nothing but a dollar in his pocket and built a multi-billion-dollar empire in under forty years.
But since his stroke, he's mellowed. Weakened, even.
Now, where Mother used to advise him, she tells him—and he gives in to her far too much. That's not good for someone like her. She thinks she knows more than she really does, and her priorities are completely off. No business sense whatsoever.
Sure, I took over the title of CEO. But did I ever really take over the man? Maybe. In some ways. Outwardly, in business,yes—at least to the rest of the world. But inwardly, within the family, I'm still not the head of it. I'm still Michael Wolfe's little boy, doing what his father tells him to do.
Is that what needs to change?
I need to think long and hard about that. But meanwhile, I still have to deal with Pops.
I raise an eyebrow. "Father, you're the one who's always harping about how family is more important than work, right?"
It's the same lecture he gives me every time my mother goes crying to him about how I don't visit enough.
