Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 121654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Very few men in this world were worth trusting, but I believed in Father Hawk. He hadn’t betrayed me so far, even after he’d seen my face and talked to me without the veil of a confessional booth. The only logical conclusion I could draw from the day’s events was that Lucian took me there merely because he wanted to. Perhaps in time I would understand his reasons, but it wouldn’t be today.
I was just finishing the dusting when I heard his alarm go off. Another oddity about Lucian was his timed meals. It didn’t matter what he was in the middle of, when that alarm went off, he ate. The strangest part was that it seemed robotic. There was no enjoyment on his face when he ate, and whenever he finished, he logged everything into a nutritional app before marking it off on his calendar.
He was methodical and rigid. Unyielding, in fact. And my brain could only speculate what forces of nature shaped his mindset. I could have asked, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t the sort of man to give anything away. Unlike the men I targeted, he was a closed book. A locked diary, to be more accurate. And that lock had a trip wire on it that would explode if you dared to poke at it.
If I was going to get any answers about him, it would have to be done the hard way. Regardless, I had two years to figure it out.
“Is there something wrong with the salad?” Lucian asked.
I flung a piece of greenery across the bowl to get to the chicken. “Not really, I guess. But I don’t usually eat this kind of stuff.”
“You mean healthy?” he mused.
I looked up at him. His voice was lighter. His whole demeanor was lighter, and I wondered if it was from the spiritual experience of this morning’s events or something else.
I set my fork down and took a sip of lemon water. “I do eat healthy, but I also choose to eat good food. This has no flavor.”
“Tell me what you’d like on the menu, and I’ll see what we can do,” he suggested.
I stared into his cocoa brown eyes. When they were warm, they looked like melted chocolate. It was hard to remember that he was such a prick when he had the capability of looking like a puppy too. And I was fairly certain this was some kind of a cruel trick, but I decided to humor him. “A little pasta wouldn’t kill us, would it?”
He shrugged. “Probably not.”
“And some wine. Good wine. Not the cheap crap.”
His lip tilted at the corner. “We’ll see about that one.”
“I like fruit more than vegetables,” I admitted.
“That doesn’t mean you can get out of eating them.”
Somehow, I didn’t doubt he was serious. I went back to picking around the greens and polished off the chunks of chicken in my bowl. “I usually drink them with a Caesar. Does that count?”
Lucian got up to clear our plates and load the dishwasher. “No, it doesn’t.”
He started sifting through the cupboards, moving boxes around and shifting items until he seemed to find what he was looking for. He pulled a few containers from the inventory and set them on the counter.
“There.” He dusted off his hands and wiped them with a towel. “Tonight, we can work on rice and beans. And good news, pet. You get to cook it.”
I shot him a disinterested look, but really, I was sort of looking forward to it. At least it gave me something to do.
Now that we’d finished our lunch, I imagined he was planning on holing back up in his office to work on his case, so I planned to get the rest of my cleaning done. The sooner I could get back into my own clothes, the better.
“May I be excused?” I asked sweetly.
He shook his head. “You may, but only to change back into your tee shirt and leggings.”
“Why?”
“That dress is only for church,” he answered. “And I need your help. Meet me out front in fifteen minutes.”
SIXTEEN MINUTES LATER, THE FRONT door slammed behind me and I thought I was ready to stage a rebellion. Instead, I found myself rooted to the welcome mat.
Now this was a holy experience.
Lucian West owned a vintage Shelby GT500, and he never even told me. It was a pearly blue, and it was a beauty. But honestly, I didn’t know what was more impressive. The car or the man beneath the hood turning the wrenches.
His hands were covered in grease, and an oil rag was hanging from his back pocket. Every muscle in his body worked as he torqued the wrench in his hand, and I watched in fascination from the sidelines. I would have never guessed that this high-powered attorney could fix cars too. Even if I had no idea what he was doing, it was apparent that he did.