Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“Bizarre, I guess. The security expert is making me remodel my balcony. My guest room is now outfitted with hideous monitors. But, yeah, it’s… okay.”
“Randi,” Cam said, leaning forward a bit, giving me raised brows. “This is me,” he reasoned.
To that, I let out a sigh.
“In the vault, right?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“I want to bang my private investigator,” I told him, feeling the weight fall from my shoulders almost immediately at getting a chance to admit that out loud.
“Um, duh,” Cam said, leaning back in his chair with a big smile. “I mean, you have eyes, don’t you?”
“He’s stupidly attractive. Couldn’t you find me an aging, blading, chain-smoking private investigator? You had to find the one who looks like he moonlights as a model?”
“I mean, of course, I tried very hard to find the ugliest one for you. Alas, Brock’s crew is considered the best there is. Which is exactly what you deserve.”
“What did the other two look like?”
“Attractive, each in their own different ways. But they’re married.”
“And I had to have the single one why?”
“Sawyer put him on the case. I don’t really know why. He just seemed knowledgeable about the situation, I guess. So what’s been going on in that penthouse?” he asked, wiggling his brows.
“Nothing. Well, a lot of eye-banging,” I admitted, shaking my head at myself. “In particular, my eyes doing a lot of the banging. Which we can’t even call my fault since the man sleeps with his shirt off.”
“You’re… watching him sleep?” Cam asked, looking a mix of amused and a little creeped out.
“No. I was just walking away after saying goodnight and he took off his shirt. And, well, it goes to follow that first thing in the morning, he is walking around without his shirt as well.”
“I have to know. Is he as fit under that shirt as I think he is?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “And he has a couple of tattoos. One is some sort of military one. Another is, of all things, a tattoo of Reptar.”
“Reptar,” Cam repeated. “Like from Rugrats?”
“I’m surprised you’re old enough for that reference, but yes. Like from Rugrats.”
I’d been both curious and endeared to find that he’d actually put that on his skin. If fear that he would think I was ogling him hadn’t had a death grip on my tongue, I might have asked him about it.
“I got the feeling from him that he’s a mix of very light and very dark,” Cam said.
“He paid for my food,” I blurted out.
“Is that weird?” Cam asked.
“I mean… it wasn’t a date.” And even if it was, Cam would be surprised how many times I’d been on dates since getting my life together and men would just let that black book sit on the table until I, inevitably, got sick of sitting there, and slipped my card in.
“He has that vibe, though, right?” Cam asked. “The ‘I take care of the womenfolk’ vibe, but without all that gross misogyny.”
“I guess that’s true,” I agreed.
“So, did I read your text right? You’re cutting out in the early afternoon?”
“Yeah. Brock is bringing me to meet his boss,” I told him, uncharacteristically leaving out the real plan. To go with Brock to his house, to see how he lived, to get a feel for who he was as a person.
I never shied away from telling Cam anything, even the kind of stuff I might find embarrassing or even a little silly.
I didn’t know what my reservation was right then.
Was it because Brock told me to keep a close eye on everyone, Cam included? Was some part of me doubting my implicit trust in him?
Or was it simply because I had clear and apparent schoolgirl sort of crush on Brock? And I didn’t want anyone to know about that? Especially because I was generally very rational about men.
I didn’t pine.
I didn’t feel shy or unsure of myself.
Everything about how I was feeling toward Brock was uncharacteristic of the woman I worked so hard to become. And maybe just too much reminiscent of the girl I’d needed to leave behind to get to where I am.
“Sawyer seemed very professional,” Cam said. “Tig too.”
“That’s good to know, since my very life seems to be in their hands.”
“Yes, speaking of that,” Cam said, making my stomach tighten. “I did some research and I have some creams coming for that scar when it is healed enough to start treating it. People who’ve had plastic surgery swear by it.”
It was incredibly vain of me, but I was really upset about the scar. About people possibly seeing it and coming to conclusions about it. If I couldn’t fade it, what was I supposed to do in seasons when long sleeves wouldn’t be appropriate or comfortable?
“You could always get a tattoo to cover it if the creams don’t work,” Cam reasoned. “And don’t try to tell me you don’t like tattoos. I saw your little secret,” he reminded me.