Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I didn’t know what he was doing or why he was doing it, but Thatcher Shephard and all his broody, mysterious ways that kept everyone on edge had pushed me too far. He was leaving these cookies. He had to be. There was no one else who would know or even have a reason to do this. He didn’t have a reason either for that matter. Was he trying to screw with my head? What sick game was he playing here?
I sped toward the street that most of the town stayed clear of if they could help it because they all believed the Shephards’ and Salazars’ homes here meant the Mafia owned this street. I, however, did not give one diddly-squat. Thatcher Shephard needed to stop leaving me cookies. I didn’t want anything from him, except to race his horses. Nothing else.
The arched gate stood open when I arrived, and the security nodded when they saw me turn in. I forced a smile and slowed down as I approached the stables. King was walking toward his truck when I came to a stop. Reaching over, I grabbed the stupid box of cookies and got out of the car.
“Capri,” King said. “I didn’t know you were coming today.” His eyes dropped to the box in my hand.
I shrugged. “Yeah, me neither. Where is Thatcher?” I asked, not even attempting to act like I wasn’t angry as hell.
King’s eyes widened, and he rubbed his chin, then nodded his head back toward the stables. “I’ll take you to him.”
Fine. Lead the way.
“Thanks.”
He glanced at me one more time before heading toward the side entrance to the stables. I knew he was curious, and I hoped he didn’t stick around to hear what I had come to say to Thatcher because now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. I had the cookies, and I knew he was leaving them. I didn’t know why, but I knew it was him. I wanted him to stop it. He messed with my head. And he’d said those things in New York, then stormed away. I’d had to see him naked, screwing a woman. But I had come racing over here because of cookies.
Was I really going to yell at him over cookies?
No.
It was much more than these stupid anonymous cookies. He was confusing me and playing games I didn’t want to play. If I was some form of amusement for him—or worse, a charity case—he needed to forget my name. I could live with not being in his league, but I could not handle the other.
King opened the door to the lounge and walked inside first, leaving it open for me to follow.
“Found someone looking for you,” King announced.
Thatcher was standing at the bar with a cigarette between his lips, looking down at his phone. He took his time lifting his head to see who was looking for him, which was so freaking arrogant that I wanted to smash the cookies over his head. I was almost to him before he looked up to see me stalking that way.
His expression didn’t change or show any surprise when I reached him.
I took the box in my hand and shoved them at his chest. “Stop leaving the cookies,” I said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what you are playing at or what your angle is, but I don’t understand it, and it’s confusing!”
He took the box and placed it on the bar.
“You can go, King,” he told him instead of acknowledging me.
“No, I think I’d better stay,” King replied.
Thatcher’s expression darkened, and a chilling gleam settled in his eyes. I didn’t have to touch Thatcher to feel the tension rolling off his body.
Finally, some sort of emotion. Even if it was a frightening one.
Reminders of King and his gun made me care a little more than I wanted to, and I turned back to look at King.
“It’s fine. This is between us. Go,” I told him.
King’s jawline was so rigid that I expected him to refuse, but when he looked over my head toward Thatcher, his shoulders eased as he shook his head, then walked to the door.
“Close it,” Thatcher snarled.
King paused, and for a moment, I didn’t think he was going to do it, but he did, and the room was silent. We were alone, and now, I was rethinking being left with him. Not wanting to let my fear or insecurity get the best of me, I reminded myself why I had come and why I was furious.
“Why are you leaving cookies at my doorstep?” I demanded. “You barely acknowledge my existence. Then, after YOU said those things to me in New York, I am treated like I did something wrong.” I said the last sentence while poking his chest with the tip of my fingernail in hard jabs without realizing it until his eyes dropped to where I was attacking his chest. The hint of disgust on his face only made it worse.