Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Liam’s eyebrows drop. “Doesn’t sound like him.”
“We have a very special connection.”
“I bet you do.” Liam stands. He moves like a lizard, sudden and smooth. He crosses the room, brushes past me, and pauses at the door. “Tell Gareth I stopped by. Tell him I’d love to have a conversation while I’m in town.”
“Sure. I can do that. He’ll clear his schedule.”
He stares at me for a long moment. I want to scream at him to get out, get out. It’s like a prey animal’s locked inside of me, and this man is a hunter.
Finally, he opens the door and walks away, leaving as suddenly as he appeared.
I slump against the wall, heart racing. What the living hell was that? Why is Liam Crowley here all of a sudden, asking about how I met Gareth and why we supposedly eloped to Vegas? Is that what Gareth told them? God, this is such a nightmare. I thought I’d be safe from those monsters here in Dallas, but clearly I was wrong.
There’s another loud bang at the door. I jump, yelping, and cover my mouth. I have to stand for a few seconds as sweat breaks out in tingles under my arms.
“Room service,” a man says from the other side of the door.
Shaking, I let him. He pushes a cart inside, sets it up, and pauses. “Anything else?” he asks.
Expecting a tip. But unfortunately for him, I have no money. “No, thanks, that’s everything.”
He frowns but leaves. I shut the door behind him, lock the deadbolt, then practically run to the bottle of champagne.
I don’t bother pouring it into a glass. I break out the cork then pour it down my throat, my hands trembling at the thought of Liam Crowley looking into the fake story Gareth spun them.
What nightmare did I stumble into? And how am I going to get out of it without marrying my boss for real?
Assuming I’m even still employed at this point.
God, what am I going to do if I lost that job? I don’t want to take Gareth’s offer, but I really, really need the paycheck.
I slump down to the floor, champagne between my knees, and I spend the next half hour hugging the bottle, seeking some comfort before I make the call I’m dreading most of all.
Chapter 9
Gareth
Fiona shows up at my office bright and early wearing the same pantsuit she had on in Boston, looking like she hasn’t showered in over a day, her eyes red and bleary, her hair up in a messy bun.
She stares at me, standing there in the doorway like she wants to walk over and strangle me.
All I can think about is that kiss.
That one, stupid kiss. I did it for a reason: to sell the story. That’s what I’m always doing, selling the story. To a jury, to a client, to friends and family. Always selling the story.
But that kiss was obscene. It was lurid, lovely. Her mouth was a feast. Soft, plump lips. Tongue like heaven, silky and smooth. Even her taste was unreal, spicy and delightful. I held that kiss for way too long because I didn’t want to let it go, not after feeling something so good for the first time in a long time.
“I didn’t expect you to show up,” I say.
She shrugs. “I didn’t expect to show up either, but I had a visitor last night.”
My eyes narrow. “Visitor? Who?”
“Liam Crowley.”
I sit back in my chair, not sure if she’s fucking with me or not. But the look on her face suggests this isn’t a joke.
“When?”
“Around five yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you all me immediately?” I ask through my teeth. What the fuck is Liam doing here? Why was he at her hotel room—and how did he know she was there?
She looks away. “I got drunk.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got drunk, okay? I drank a bottle of champagne, ordered a second one, drank that, got sick, ordered a third bottle, but fortunately passed out before I could start on it. I’m having a really, really hard time over here, and I do not need your judgment on top of it.”
I blink slowly at her, trying to parse what she’s telling me. “Liam Crowley visited you, and instead of calling me immediately… you used my card to buy champagne.”
“My ex got engaged. And my mom’s in a quadrople. Also, don’t forget, my apartment burned down.”
“What the fuck is a quadrople?”
“I don’t know,” she says, throwing her hands up. “A four-way couple. Can you just please focus?”
“I’m trying to come to grips with this new information and struggling to understand your decision making.”
Her expression darkens. “I’m not in a good place, okay? I drank a bottle of champagne and passed out on the floor. Are you happy?”
“No, Fiona, I’m not happy. It freaks me the fuck out that you decided to get drunk instead of calling me.”