Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Get some silverware,” I tell Madison.
The waiter quickly produces two napkins and silverware and hands them to Madison. “May I bring you beverages somewhere, sir?”
I take a quick glance at his cart. Underneath it are bottles of sparkling water. “I’ll take one of those Perriers,” I tell him, and he hands it to Madison. “No glasses?”
“No, thank you.” I walk off leaving Madison to trail behind me, forgetting how much shorter her steps are in the gown and heels.
I lean my shoulder against the doors to another conference room and look in. It’s trashed, requiring cleanup from another event. I keep walking. The next conference room has an event going. I pull back with a wince and Madison giggles.
I flash back to years past, when I was a teen forced to attend this ball. My mother and father sparkled in the spotlight, pretending to be the perfect couple for anyone watching. After a while, I couldn’t stomach the lie, and I’d sneak out, just like this.
Those days, I’d be alone. Tonight, I have Madison at my side. And it’s getting harder to deny that it feels so right.
I end up finding a large window in a quiet hallway that overlooks the city. “This will work.” I lower myself to sit in the wide windowsill and set the two plates down in front of me.
Madison eyes the arrangement. “I can’t eat with a plate on my lap. I will stain this twenty thousand dollar dress, and will have to pay the rental penalty.”
I hold my hand out for the silverware rolls and flick them both open, spilling our silverware into my lap. “Come here.” I beckon.
She laughs softly as she perches on the window sill across from me. I reach out and tuck one of the napkins into the straps of her gown, like a bib. The second one I spread across her lap. “There. Problem solved. That’s a better view for me, anyway.”
She looks down at her covered chest, and her lips curve. She doesn’t even pretend to be offended or fish for an explanation. She acts like my obedient subordinate, but then she wears the dresses I so love to hate. Or is it hate to love? Either way, it’s another point to her in the sartorial war.
“How did you end up on Wall Street, Madison?” I can’t remember the last time I had dinner with an employee like this, one on one. I don't think I ever have. But my wolf is loving it. When it comes to Madison, I break all my rules.
“I was done with school, so I got a job.” She looks at her plate while she answers me, paying a lot of attention to cutting her steak with the steak knife.
“What was your degree in?”
“Sociology.”
“You didn’t want a job in your field?”
“I applied to a few, but they don’t pay. And I wanted to make bank, so...”
I shake my head. “Something about it doesn’t quite fit with you.”
She goes still, which tells me I’m onto something. “What are you saying?”
“You seem more of the bleeding heart type. Not one to sell out for money.”
She clenches her utensils tighter, sawing through her steak with savage jerks. “Some of us have to work for a living.”
Touchy. “What do your parents do?”
Now she looks up, a challenge in her eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.” I’m now certain Madison’s lower or middle class status is a sore spot for her. I’m curious whether it has something to do with the human cosmetics heiress, Eleanor Harrington. Because even though Madison didn’t seem to know her, she had a similar scent as Madison. A familial scent. And her interest in Madison couldn’t be ignored.
“I was changing the topic. I’m just curious what upbringing created this smart, ballsy, window-dress wearing package.”
I don’t consider myself a charmer, but I’m not horrible if I put a little effort out. She relaxes.
“My mom has a Ph.D. in Shakespearean Literature. She teaches at Landhower Preparatory School.”
“And your dad?” I prompt.
“No dad.”
“Test tube baby?” I deadpan.
She shrugs. “No name on the birth certificate. My mom got knocked up when she was in graduate school by some upper crust society guy. I guess he wanted nothing to do with her because she had the wrong pedigree or something.”
Ah. And there’s the reason for the chip on her shoulder.
It also fits with my suspicions about Eleanor Harrington. She has a few sons who might be of the right age to have sired Madison.
“Not that you’d know about that,” she mutters to her plate.
“Why do you say that?” I want to know her thoughts.
“You know,” she says in that light tone of hers, the one she uses when she’s teasing me. “You were born with a silver fork, knife and spoon in your hand.”
“I assure you, I was not.”