Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I love that kid. And I know Ellie does, too. But I also know she can’t do this on her own.
It might be hard as hell some days, but I’ll always be here to help her, no matter what.
When I’m finally up in my suite, I kick off my dress shoes, pull off my blazer, and quickly change into a hoodie and jogging pants. As I’m about to go downstairs, my phone lights up with a notification from BLIND LOVE: You have one message!
I rush to check it. Stranger7721 ghosted me too fast last night, without so much as a goodbye. A shame, since she was the first person on this damned app I actually enjoyed talking to.
But the message isn’t from her.
Stranger581: Are you ghosting me?
The irony of her question isn’t lost on me.
You think? She’s sent me fourteen texts, one a day for the past two weeks, and I haven’t responded. It’s safe to say I’m not interested. I was once. Marginally. Even then, I saw red flags, but it was right after Ellie had lost her third job and I couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel, so I was desperate. Stranger581 is into healing crystals and metaphysical bullshit. Not my thing. And she kept telling me she could sense my aura. When she asked me what my date and time of birth were so she could do my astrology chart, that was the final nail in the coffin.
If she were truly that intuitive, she’d have sensed that my aura was telling her to give up.
Blocking her seemed harsh, so I thought if I ignored some of her messages, she’d get the hint. Since that hasn’t happened, it’s time to put her out of her misery.
Stranger88: Hey! Sorry. Been busy with work and family stuff. Also, I think you seem like a nice person, but I don’t think we’re a good match. Take care.
I hit send and immediately open up the conversation I’d had with Stranger7721. She’s not online and hasn’t responded to my last message.
Stranger88: I don’t ever play by the rules.
I reread the messages. I must have scared her off. Maybe I came on too strong. She’s sounded cute. Innocent. But she also mentioned being a workaholic, just like me. She’s probably working right now, and I’m the furthest thing from her mind.
I re-read her bio. Love my job, but not much else.
And then I send her a message:
Stranger88: Okay, fine. I’ll play by the rules. Only 89 days to go. I’m willing to wait if you are.
3
I sip my tepid coffee at my desk and attempt to concentrate on the endless stream of unread emails in front of me.
It’s only a quarter past nine and I’m yawning already and finding it impossible to focus. I usually come to work, ready and raring to go. Today I can’t keep my eyes open to save my life.
I was able to put Stranger88 out of my head at around two AM, when I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to be woken by my alarm three hours later. I pride myself on being the first person into the office every day, turning on the lights and watching everyone step off the elevator exactly at nine. It shows pluck. Drive. Ambition. Motivation. Self-discipline. All the things an up-and-coming attorney should possess.
I’d never dream of sneaking off into a dark corner of the office to have fun with a delivery person. That’s not me. I actually have respect for myself, for the law, and for this institution. I’m here to work and only to work.
But apparently not today, which is concerning with that promotion on the table.
In an attempt to keep my eyes open, I decide to get up, stretch, and refill my coffee. Only the second I rise from my chair, the elevator across the hall dings, the doors part, and out steps Brooks Gentry—swagger, arrogant smile, and all.
The sight of him makes most women wet. He has thick, dark hair that tumbles over his forehead in a devil-may-care way, ice-blue eyes, a strong jaw that always has a five o’clock shadow, even early in the morning. I’ve never seen him in anything other than a suit, though he rarely wears the jacket and always seems to have his sleeves rolled up in a let’s get to work kind of way.
Not that I’ve ever seen him do much actual work.
Everything comes so easy to him—especially the women around here.
I’m not sure what bothers me more… the fact that highly intelligent women in this place act like groupies at a concert the second he walks by—or the fact that he’s my number one competitor for this promotion.
I pride myself on never showing a ripple, but it’s impossible with him. The mere sight of him makes it nearly impossible to control my facial expressions. Then there’s the fact that he’s an Ivy League snob, from Yale or Harvard or some law school that wouldn’t even look at me. Secondly, he’s infuriatingly gorgeous, tall and athletic and easy on the eyes—and he knows it. He has the entire office wrapped around his charming little pinky finger. If the man had a single pore on his perfect face, it’d be oozing confidence.