Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I stare at her sourly over my cup.
She blinks and grins again before she slouches over, bumping her shoulder against mine. “You’re too good to me, fiancé.”
“Give me a number,” I grind out.
“Come again?” She blinks at me.
“How much more do I have to pay you not to be so damned peppy?”
Her smile widens. “How much are you worth again? There’s not enough money in the world, my darling.”
“Try me.”
Elle laughs again.
I don’t want to admit that the verbal jousting somewhat lifts my mood.
I wonder why the grouchier I am, the more pleased she gets.
Strange woman.
As Rick pulls into traffic, though, Elle tilts her head, studying me. “There’s something else on your mind. What’s up?”
“Lawyers,” I mutter. “I hate meeting with them, but it’s a necessity.”
“Is this about that lawsuit your sister mentioned before I was ejected from the office?”
I at least have the good grace to wince at that. “Sorry. I tend to get tunnel vision when someone presents me with a problem. But yes, it’s about that lawsuit.”
Wrinkling her nose, Elle shakes her head.
“I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to sue you?”
“It’s the daughter of Aunt Clara’s former coauthor. She owns her own publishing and media company.” I sigh. I hate getting into this, but Elle deserves answers. “She claims that Inky the Penguin is her father’s creation, not Aunt Clara’s, and that she’s owed the rights and all publication materials, plus decades of profits.”
Elle just stares at me, horror draining the color from her face. “That’s—no. No way. I didn’t even know Clara Marshall ever had a coauthor. It can’t be true . . . can it?”
“Of course not.” I can’t hide the disgust in my voice. “Aunt Clara would never steal. Inky was her labor of love from the start. I don’t know what the fuck happened; she and Lester Sullivan had some sort of falling out early in their partnership. He left. Then the man tried to re-create her work and failed, while her ideas took off. Sullivan’s daughter, Marissa, still blames us for her father’s death. She says that losing his career made him an alcoholic and ruined him.” That eats at me so harshly I pause. “So, she’s out to ruin us, burying us in frivolous lawsuits.”
Elle studies me, then leans in closer until we’re shoulder to shoulder again, arm to warm, slender arm. She always looks at me like she’s found some new treasure. I can’t for the life of me understand why this bizarre woman would ever look at me that way, when all I’ll ever give her are scowls and clipped words.
“You really care about your family,” Elle murmurs, her lips curling up. “You’re so loyal.”
“Stop that,” I snap. Why do my ears feel so hot?
“What?” Elle whispers.
“Complimenting me. You don’t need to—”
Before I can utter another word, I have a face full of girl.
A face full of very gorgeous, wide-eyed sunshine made flesh.
Her nose almost touches mine, and her eyes are so wide and locked on mine with playful curiosity.
Her lips are too close.
“August Marshall,” Elle says in an exaggerated whisper, touching her finger to the tip of my nose. “Are you shy?”
“Fuck no,” I snarl.
Yes. Maybe. Shut up.
I pull my tumbler up as a shield between us so I won’t do something reckless like kiss her again. “I’m trying to drink my damned tea, but there’s someone in my way.”
“You’re shyyy.” A coy smile teases at her lips. She pokes my ribs through my vest. “I bet you were that little boy who didn’t know how to talk to people because no one understood you and you didn’t have anything in common with them, so you didn’t know how to relate. Instead, you just pretended you didn’t want to have anything to do with people, and you got all grouchy about it and sat in the corner with your books, when really, you just wanted someone to come ask you to play video games.”
I can’t even growl at her.
My heart skips strangely as I stare at this annoying creature.
It hurts.
It hurts like the first time I tried to say hello to a group of bullies playing in the schoolyard sandbox.
“The orphan kid!” they screamed.
Depraved little monsters.
They laughed at my polished shoes and suspenders and threw rocks at me until I ran.
How did she know?
How the hell did she look at me and know the days I spent alone, learning to throw punches instead of running, then ignoring the other kids and being so formidable that they’d fear me too much to laugh behind my back?
How did she look at me and see the quiet afternoons spent with my aunt, sharpening her colored pencils and feeling like she understood me because she wrote books Debra and I loved?
Elle pulls back, concern darkening her brow.
“August? I’m sorry. Did I go too far?”