Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Drawing closer to the building’s entrance, I maneuver through the fast lines into the slow outer side, standing almost on the edge of the curb.
I swivel on my heels to face the glass and granite structure, and peer upward to see Hammond Press written in a bold marquee.
It’s showtime. Butterflies scatter within me. I didn’t think I’d have a major case of the chickenshits, but I do.
Dammit. I can do this.
Bringing my eyes back to the ground, I close them for a quiet moment to regroup, and resign myself to hoping I can push through my fear while still doing it afraid.
Two more deep breaths, and I open my eyes, my gaze still on the ground, where a shiny pair of men’s black shoes mirror mine. The tips of our soles are separated by a few inches. I focus in, noting the perfect leather and sleek design of the men’s version leans toward an expensive European brand.
I inch up the matching, black wool trousers, passing over a Gucci belt buckle and paper white dress shirt. A silk tie with woven threads of gray and black rests between the open lapels of a black suit jacket. Once past broad shoulders, I catch the man’s tilted smile while his eyes catch all of me, slowly, from head to toe. He’s not quite as tall, dark, and handsome as Barclay Hammond, but there’s something similar in his look—and age.
“Pardon me, but you seem like you might need a little help,” he says in a smooth tongue. His smile fades to concern as his fingers twitch, as if he wants to check my pulse. “Trevor Spears.”
I give my head a slight shake before I reach toward his now extended hand. Mine disappears around his large fingers, and he holds his grip an appropriate second or two, though he lingers a second or two longer than appropriate on my boobs.
“Tessa Holly.” My southern accent has a woman turning her head. Her eyes are wide, as if she’s witnessing the sighting of an extinct animal.
“Where are you from, Tessa?” He pushes his suit coat to the side, settling his hand at his waist. I wonder if this is his relaxed pose.
“Take a guess.” I add a swipe of sarcasm to my smile.
“Below the Mason Dixie line.” He whistles as his eyes revisit my legs. He’s so discreet. Ugh.
Nodding, I purse my lips and place my hand on my hip. He glances down at my mirrored move, and does this smirk laugh thing as he throws back his head.
“What brings you to the city?” His predictable questions are a breath of stale air.
I scoot to the right about six inches, so I can peek around his tall frame. The revolving doors at Hammond Press spin around as people come and go. I need to shake this man from my day and get on the circling merry-go-round.
“Actually, I was just headed into Hammond.” I mark a way of escape and secure my bag onto my shoulder. Then, in stealth mode, I start to maneuver around him and re-enter the sidewalk highway.
“Remarkable, so am I.” He turns to follow me, his large frame and giant strides clearing the walking traffic like a rope line, giving us a direct path to the front doors. “Do you work at Hammond?”
“No.” Oh how I wish I could’ve said yes to this man. “I have a special delivery.”
“Oh, you’re a courier with a delivery from the South?”
“Something like that,” I say out the corner of my mouth.
“Follow me. I know the security guard. No one and nothing gets past him without his approval.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, addressing him in a proper Southern way. I peer up into his eyes, wondering why they’ve become so dark. “I would greatly appreciate that.”
“My pleasure.” His response is smoother than velvet, and I have the weird feeling I’ve missed an element in our conversation.
Mr. Spears opens the single door next to the revolving one and places his hand on the small of my back, ushering me into the lobby. Though I’ve read about this gentlemanly contact in books, no man has ever led me this way. I do see the appeal.
The gray-colored marble lobby is longer than it is wide, and enclosed glass bookcases cover the sidewalls, rising two stories tall. Their shelves display scores of books, with the covers facing frontward. I recognize a few titles, even the most recent one from Don Black: A Code for Mankind.
My awestruck reactions make me fall a step behind Mr. Spears. I skip up next to him and reach the security desk as he does.
“Good morning, Mr. Spears,” the guard welcomes my tall escort by name, substantiating his claim.
“Same.” Mr. Spears is curt, not returning the warm greeting in full.
“What can I help you with, sir?” the guard asks.