Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Checking my surroundings, and standing not too far from the doorman, I get my phone back out. Before I have a chance to open the app, a message from a court-ordered texting app pops up.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I huff under my breath, seeing the message is from Cory, my ex-husband. We separated two and a half years ago and finalized a long and drawn out divorce only six months ago. Things took forever because Cory wanted everything—and I mean everything.
A classic narcissist—with the official diagnosis to boot—he felt entitled to get every single penny from our shared assets. He claimed it was “fair” because I got to keep my name, Mira Martin, and the brand I built on social media surrounding it. It was a long and arduous fight, but in the end, the judge saw through his bullshit and awarded me sixty percent of all of our shared assets instead of the standard fifty.
I’ll admit, I have a morbid curiosity when Cory messages me. It’s usually when he’s fighting with his mistress, who I guess is technically his girlfriend now, but she’ll forever be a mistress in my mind since they started dating before we had even filed for divorce. He denied it a thousand times over, but phone records don’t lie, and I had pictures of them on dates together that a friend took. It was hilarious, really, because we think they went several towns over on purpose, yet it wasn’t far enough.
I haven’t opened a message from Cory in months; there’s no need, but curiosity is getting the better of me tonight.
Cory: I just realized I didn’t get my nautical beach towel when I took half the linens.
I blink a few times, not even sure what the hell he’s talking about. Stifling a laugh, I’m about to put my phone back when he sends another message.
Cory: I see you read my message. Are you ready to stop being a petty bitch and reply to the others too? You still owe me for the damaged model cars. Don’t think I won’t take you back to court and hold you in contempt!
Rolling my eyes, I exit out of the texting app and go to put in for an Uber. But right as I’m pulling it up, I sense a man coming up behind me—fast.
Chapter
Seven
MIRA
Ispin on my heel, automatically going into position to attack and defend myself. Wow, I’m surprised those self defense classes paid off.
“Whoa,” the man says, holding up a hand to block me in case I did throw a punch. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“That’s exactly what someone who would hurt me would say.” I shift my gaze from the man to the doorman, who’s busy helping an older couple call a ride-share from their phone.
“I’m Agent Harris,” he goes on and reaches into his back pocket, retrieving his wallet. He shows me a badge.
“Really? FBI?” I raise my eyebrows. “Is the fine print going to say federal bikini inspector, Agent?”
His lips—which are full and oddly distracting—curve into a smile. “Had that one in college, but his one is real.” He lowers his hand and takes a step back, giving me space. I swallow my pounding heart and fully take him in. He’s tall, definitely over six feet, with a head of thick, dark brown hair. His hazel eyes glimmer under the lights of the hotel awning and it takes everything in me not to admire his muscular biceps that fill out the sleeves of his plain black t-shirt. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” I say and automatically run through a list of possibilities in my head. I’m not in trouble, no, I can’t be. But what if I am? Maybe I did something by accident and don’t remember, or my browser history is finally catching up with me.
Dammit.
I’m not in trouble. I didn’t do anything wrong. Worrying about getting reprimanded is a defense mechanism I picked up from years of narcissistic abuse, always walking on eggshells around Cory. The smallest thing could make him blow up, scream at me as he threw things in his rampage. Or worse, he’d leave the house, turn off his location on Find My Friends and would be gone all hours of the night only to come home and give me the silent treatment, sometimes lasting days. The record of him pretending I didn’t exist was four full days.
Four days of a grown-ass man walking past me as if I wasn’t there. Four days of not acknowledging me in public, pretending not to even hear me when I asked a question when we sat at the dinner table with his nieces, who are young but knew enough to know that Uncle Cory was being a grade-A asshole.
What did I do to deserve to be ignored like that? One would think it was something horrible, but it was just that I partook in a drinking game at a Halloween party we hosted. I was drunk, but not sloppy, falling down and puking drunk. It was the happy, dancing-on-the-table kind of drunk, and I had no idea he was even pissed about it until I woke up the next morning to his face literally inches from mine, telling me what an embarrassing slut I am for having a good time.