Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
“Calm down. We dodged the bullet. Let’s not forget that,” I say softly, taking a step toward him, but he shifts his chair, avoiding my touch.
“We’ve dodged nothing, Paige. Not yet. And it won’t end until I’ve shut this shit down. There’ll be other grenades, and if Winthrope is a dead end they’ll go to The Chicago Tea. The asshole won’t stop until he gets what he wants. That’s how my father is. He’s greedy, dirty, and never figured out how to think.”
He picks up his office phone and punches a direct line button.
“Nick, get your ass in here.” He hangs up.
Nick Brandt comes through the door a second later, his easygoing grin replaced with a scowl. “What’s your problem now?”
“Not what, who. And the answer is, our fuck of a dad,” Ward says.
“Jesus. What’s happened?” Nick asks, taking a chair.
I listen tensely while Ward fills him in on the call and the mystery character assassination packet.
My heart aches for Nick when he looks up, his face morose, loaded with decades of pain caused by these people.
“What are we going to do?” he asks.
I don’t hear Ward’s answer.
I’m too busy beginning to understand the dark side of becoming a Brandt.
A few hours later, Ward calls me into his office.
It’s the first time he’s spoken to me since the phone call ordeal earlier.
“You rang?” I push his office door open.
“I need the biggest black drip you can find. And if you can’t, six shots of espresso, please,” he says.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Friendly reminder, the coffee runs aren’t back on the table just because you said 'please.' But I know you’re having a bad day, so I’ll get your coffee because I care. Not because I’m your fake whatever.”
“Thanks,” he says, giving back a smile like the sun.
Oof. It almost makes putting up with his growliness worth it.
He’s so tense he’s gone from sculpted Orion to militant Hercules.
I linger in front of his desk, waiting for more, but it never comes. I’m off to The Bean Bar with a fluttery smile, and when the barista passes me the cup, I pull out a pen and quickly sketch a certain constellation—only this hunter wears a long, exaggerated tie.
“Back so soon? Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, barely looking up.
He doesn’t notice my little doodle.
I ignore the cue to exit, clearing my throat. “Ward, are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, just can’t afford to lose focus. You should concentrate on your job, too.”
What the hell?
“I hope that wasn’t implying I don’t do my job,” I say sharply.
That gets his attention. He meets my eyes.
“No. You work your cute ass off, never any doubt about that. Sorry. We’re all on edge.” He sighs, leaning his massive body back in the tall leather chair.
His new angle makes him notice what’s on the cup as he lifts it for another slurp. For a second, that mile-wide grin returns with a slow understanding nod.
I smile back.
“Thank God. You had me worried, Paige. I was starting to fear I’d have to settle for your smart mouth and never get another message by coffee cup again,” he says with a chuckle.
I wink at him and return to my desk, my heart twisting like a rag. I want this easy banter and loaded smiles.
I want it all, truth be told, and I know I can’t have it. Not while his psycho parents are out there scheming up so much misery. I stay long into the evening, even after my own work is done, hoping for some tiny crumb of good news.
Around eight p.m., Ward emerges from his office and blinks when he sees me. “You didn’t have to stay this late.”
“And you don’t need to work yourself to death, mister.” I stand, reaching for my purse, my eyes searching his for any hope.
It’s not there.
When we head down the elevator together and step outside, Ward almost climbs into an Uber waiting for someone else and not the usual jet-black Lincoln.
My heart aches for him.
This stress is making him lose it.
Back at the penthouse, he still doesn’t have much to say. He orders dinner like we do several times a week. I only cook if I want to.
I grab the mobile order when it shows up, put the food on the table, and go to his study. “Dinner! Hope you’re hungry.”
“Thanks. I’ll eat later. Don’t starve yourself waiting up for me,” he says, still hunched over his computer, a ragged fighting look on his face.
Right.
I promised Ward I’d stay out of the guest suite and I’m not sitting at that massive table by myself, so I grab my General Tso’s chicken and flop down on the couch. At least Netflix still has time for me.
He hasn’t come out of his office by the time I finish dinner and binge-watch three episodes of a small-town suspense series inspired by the intrigue in Heart’s Edge, Montana.