Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Hmm, no.”
“Why?”
I ducked my head and blushed.
“Right. Money.” He said the word like it was dirty.
“Actually, not just money,” I said. “I can’t leave the US while my visa application is processing.”
Which was a shame, because I missed my family dreadfully.
“Any other summer plans?” he probed.
“Not really.” I nibbled on my iceberg lettuce, which had veggies, tofu, and quinoa inside it. “I should probably start working on my contacts in the city, though. Put myself out there.”
“Find another rich groom to lock down?” he asked wryly.
I ignored his jab.
“Might get a facial next week. I have an unused voucher.” I shrugged, staring at my food dispassionately.
He scratched his head. I looked everywhere but at him. After two full minutes of silence, he snapped.
“Okay, can you tell me what the fuck happened between my saving your ass and you acting like I pushed you to your death? Because I know you’re not this boring.”
“How do you know?” I challenged, annoyed that he’d called me out on my childish behavior.
“Because”—he let out an exasperated growl—“you’re the only woman in the world I like to speak with. And before you call me a pig, I don’t like talking to men either. So just tell me what I need to apologize for and we’ll call it a fucking day. I don’t wanna hear about your facials.”
I stared at him, miserable. I wanted to ask about Gretchen, but I knew the wrong answer would leave me agonized. BJ cheating was bad enough, but Riggs . . . I mean, no need to pile on the bad news.
“Nothing.” I pursed my lips.
“Spill it or you’re fired,” he said with a straight face.
“You can’t fire me—the day’s almost over.”
“Fine. Then forget about tomorrow. I’ll give the job to somebody else.”
“You don’t know anyone else who needs the money.” Oddly, his friends were really rich.
“Charlie,” he said.
Shoot. Charlie would love tagging along with Riggs. Double shoot. I hadn’t checked on him, even though I’d been meaning to.
Might as well get it over with.
“Are you still . . .” I gulped, buying time.
He raised an eyebrow, losing patience. “Am I still what?”
“In touch with Gretchen?”
His eyebrows creased. “This is what got your panties in a twist?”
I hitched a shoulder up. “Let’s admit it, my knickers have been twisty since last night, when you refused to get rid of them.”
He smirked. “Jealous?”
I barked out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. My only feelings for you are fondness and friendship.”
“I meant of Gretchen.” He stared at me like I was insane as he took a slow bite of his sandwich.
“Right. Of course. I knew that.” I smoothed my dress over my legs, thinking about it. Was I jealous of Gretchen? Or had I been? I wanted to be honest with him, with myself. And I also wanted to know the answer to that question, because I never dared to ask that of myself.
“I think I envy her,” I admitted, finally.
He ripped another piece of bread with his teeth. “What’s the difference between jealousy and envy?”
“Envy builds you and jealousy destroys you.” I rolled a piece of lettuce between my fingers. “Envy is wanting something someone else has and being inspired by it. Jealousy is knowing you could never have it. And though they oftentimes wear similar masks, you can always tell them apart. Jealousy will be louder, unrestrained, and often public.”
Riggs reached to ruffle my hair. I secretly loved when he did that.
“You’re smart, Poppins.”
I bloomed under his hooded gaze, feeling prettier and smarter than I ever had before, and wondered if this was how love felt. To feel like you completely belong and are worthy, even when showing your true self.
“So that means Gretchen was jealous of you, and you were envious of Gretchen,” Riggs concluded. “Because what I’ve seen in her office was sure unrestrained and public.”
“What could Gretchen be jealous of?” I let out a bark of a laugh. “She has everything, and I have nothing.”
“You have youth,” he pointed out. “And wits. You’re funny, you’re smart, you think on your feet, and—fine, I’ll give it to you—you’re a great employee, and she knows that.”
“Maybe.” I hmmed. “But that doesn’t answer my question—are you still in touch with her?”
He gave me a smart-ass smirk. “No comment.”
I wanted to strangle him for not giving me a straight answer, but I didn’t sulk and forced myself to take part in our conversation as we finished our sandwiches.
“So . . . how long have you been a mountain climber?”
“Mountaineer,” he corrected. “Since I was eighteen. But even before that, I liked climbing shit. Rooftops, trees, whatever.”
“You really want to die, don’t you?” I squeezed a pitted olive between my fingers, watching it spurting oil.
He laughed. “Actually, climbing a roof when intoxicated is much more dangerous than climbing Everest with the help of oxygen bottles, a Sherpa, and months of preparation.”