Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Skye. Where is Skye?
When I don’t locate her right away, I follow Bestie with my gaze as she and Garrett leave the dance floor. Bestie makes a beeline to—
Skye.
She sits at a table by herself. Bestie wipes her brow as she sits down next to Skye.
They chat, but of course I have no idea what they’re saying, as they’re across the room. Skye picks up a nearly full drink and downs it. Just like that.
Then my hackles rise.
Garrett Ramirez and another young architect, Peter Reardon, son of the boss, Beau Reardon, approach Skye’s table. The four of them head to the dance floor while I curl my hands into fists.
I could go cut in. Drag her away. Force her back into my bed. She may not even resist.
Instead, I watch from afar as she moves in that dress that hugs her body the way I want to be hugging it. Her smile seems pasted on, but still she dances, and she’s damned good on her feet, too. Who knew Skye Manning could swing?
Then again, why would I know? I just met the woman.
Four numbers.
Four fucking numbers I wait through—tempted to chew off my own arm to get out of this trap—before Skye finally leaves the dance floor.
Peter Reardon follows her, and they head to the bar.
I’m right behind them, staying just far enough away that they won’t notice me unless someone pounces on me to kiss my ass, which happens a lot at these kinds of events. Someone’s always trying to get a hand in my pocket. I’m generous by nature, but tonight, I hope like hell no one notices me.
I’m behind them now, and I can hear their conversation. The bartender hands Peter a Guinness and what appears to be a Wild Turkey for Skye.
“What’s your name?” Skye asks her companion.
“What?” Peter yells.
For God’s sake, asshole, I can hear her. But my senses are on high alert. I could hear Skye whisper at this point.
“What’s your name?” she asks again.
“Peter. You?”
“Skye.”
“Nice to meet you.” He hands her the bourbon.
Skye takes a sip. “What do you do, Peter?”
“What?”
For crying out loud.
“I’m an architect. I work for my father, also an architect. You?”
“I work for Addison Ames.”
“The heiress?”
“Yeah. I’m her personal assistant, but I’m really a photographer at heart. That’s what I want to do full-time eventually.”
“What?”
“I said I’m her personal assistant. But I want to eventually make a living as a photographer.”
“Cool,” Peter says.
Cool? My God, she’s way too good for the likes of this asshole.
Skye takes another sip. “You want to dance again?”
I take a step closer.
“Sure.” He grabs her hand.
I’m ready to intervene when he speaks again.
“I’m sweating. You want to get some fresh air first?”
Oh, hell no. I see where this is going. I close the gap in two giant steps.
“No,” I say firmly. “She does not.”
Chapter Sixteen
“What are you doing here?” Skye demands.
I can’t help an assessing gaze. That dress is even more amazing up close. It was made to form fit her body. A fine silver chain sparkles around her throat.
I imagine, for a moment, that she’s wearing my collar. That she’s mine—body, heart, and soul—for safekeeping, always and forever.
I drop my gaze down her bare legs to her strappy silver sandals, her pretty toenails painted bright red.
Fuck it all.
I raise my head and meet her glaring eyes. She asked me a question. What are you doing here?
“Keeping you from getting yourself into trouble,” I say without apology.
Peter goes rigid next to her. “Nice meeting you, Skye,” he says, turning.
“Wait! Aren’t we going to dance?”
“Another time.” He disappears onto the dance floor.
Good. Let him go. She’s way too good for him. I’ve heard rumors about Reardon Brothers. Rumors I’m definitely going to look into now.
“Come with me.” I pull her out of the ballroom, through the hallway, to the hotel lobby, her heels clacking on the marble floor as she runs to keep up.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping you from sneaking into someone else’s bed.”
“Seriously?” she huffs.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“You don’t know anything about me. I’m not drunk. I never get drunk. And I can sleep with whomever I want. How did you find me anyway?”
I pull my phone out of my pocket. “Instagram.”
“I’m going back in,” she says, hands on her hips.
“Not without me.”
“Do you even have a ticket to this event?”
“Do you think I need a ticket?”
She shakes her head. “Fine, come along, then. I can’t leave Tessa in there alone.”
Tessa? Ah, the bestie. @tessalolita
“Tessa’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”
“Interesting take. Tessa’s my age, Braden, and you obviously don’t think I can take care of myself.”
“Not true. I didn’t show up because you can’t take care of yourself. I showed up to keep you out of someone else’s bed.”
She shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable. What makes you think I’d end up in someone’s bed?”