Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
“Good,” I approve.
She hits send and sets her phone aside again. “We have to find the answer in that message we were sent. I know I don’t have the capacity to wade through information with the same results you can, but let me help. What can I do?”
“Show me the file you’ve put together and explain what concerns you, what looks shady.”
From there, we dig in. After reviewing her data with me, she starts reading through the files Blake sent me. In the midst of it all, I tease another investor on the NFL deal, refuse calls from Julius, the asshole trying to set-up the deal, and ensure Grayson knows what card I’m playing. It’s one in the morning when Harper is snuggled next to me, sound asleep, and I move her MacBook to the nightstand. With her pressed to my side, I continue to work, and I decide that I could damn sure get used to this woman by my side, in a bed, any bed, with me, for a really long time.
Maybe even a lifetime.
Holy fuck, what is happening to me?
She’s a damn witch, but she’s the sweetest, sexiest witch I’ve ever known.
I flip through her data again, my Rubik’s cube in my hand, and I compare it to the files that were deleted from Kingston’s systems. I end up focusing on Isaac’s email records to the point that I set the cube down. He deleted every email to a man named Tim Carlson, who just so happens to be a high-ranking officer of the automobile union. And Harper is not only meeting with the union tomorrow, she feels like it’s a set-up. I don’t like how that looks, feels, or sounds, especially when Gigi, who I don’t trust, befriended Harper and now she doesn’t want me to know about cash deposits. But she wanted me here. She sent Harper to get me. Blake’s right. Harper and I are being set-up.
Chapter thirty-nine
Eric
Iwake at sunrise with Harper pressed to my side, the heat of her body next to mine warming me in places I thought to be unbreakable ice, but I was wrong. She’s changing me. She doesn’t know it, but I do. With every moment that I’m with her, she seeps deeper inside me, and she was already there to begin with. She’s been there for six illogical years. Proven by the fact that for a solid fifteen minutes, I lay there, just listening to her breathe. When I finally force myself out of the bed to get ready for a phone conference I’ve set-up on the NFL deal, I stand above her and watch as she snuggles into the covers, and to me—this represents trust. With all she has going on, with all the fears she’s nursing, she feels safe with me here. And she is.
No one is ever going to hurt her again.
I pull on my boots I took off hours ago, drag my jacket on without a shirt, stick the gun in the back of my jeans, and then head downstairs, exiting the house into a cold Denver morning to grab my garment bag from the trunk of my rental. I check in with Blake by text, despite texting with him a few hours ago. When I re-enter the bedroom, Harper hasn’t moved. I finish showering and she’s still in a deep slumber. I shave and dress in an expensive as fuck suit, worthy of the Bennett brand, and then accessorize with the gun at the back of my pants, under my jacket. I make coffee and predict how Harper takes hers based on the supplies she has in the house and then head upstairs.
I set the cup on the nightstand, sitting next to Harper, my hand settling on her arm. She blinks and brings me into focus. “Eric? God, is that really you?”
My lips curve at her sleepy, dreamy reaction. “Yes, sweetheart. It’s really me. I brought you coffee.”
She rockets to a sitting position. “Eric?”
I laugh. “Yes. It’s still me.”
“I was—I think I was—”
“Dreaming?”
“Yes. I was really asleep and I think you were—It was just a dream.”
Dreaming of me. Fuck. She’s undoing me here. I should have come back for her. I never should have left her.
“Oh God,” she says, grabbing my arm. “What time is it? I have that union meeting.”
“It’s only six-thirty.” I offer her the coffee. “You have time.”
“You really made me coffee?”
“I really made you coffee,” I confirm as she accepts the cup and sips.
“And you made it how I like it. Was there some statistical reason you chose my perfect mixture?”
“I guessed based on how you stock your supplies.”
“You did good,” she approves, “and how very un-bastard-like of you.” She eyes my suit. “You look really, really good in that suit. Actually, you look really, really good in a T-shirt. And apparently, I have no filter this early in the morning.”