Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“We can’t do this, Bianca. And it has nothing to do with you.”
What the hell?
I shove away from the counter, my jaw hitting the floor. My face is hot—my temper even hotter.
“What do you mean, we can’t do this, and it has nothing to do with you? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I ask, staring at him in disbelief.
“I have to take this call,” he says, heading for the door.
I pick up my jaw, my teeth clenching so hard they hurt. There’s no way he’s ghosting me. Not again.
“Tell me you’re kidding me right now,” I say, barely able to get the words out.
He pauses in the doorway. “There’s nothing left to discuss.”
“You think you’re going to stand here and tell me all that and then walk out?” I laugh angrily. “Again?”
He takes a long, deep breath. I expect him to slide his phone in his pocket and return to me. But he doesn’t move—not toward me, anyway.
“I’ll put something for you to sleep in on the counter in the guest bathroom,” he says, resolute.
“Don’t bother.”
The phone stops, then begins to ring all over again. Irritation flashes through his eyes, but I’m not sure if it’s because of me, the call, or both.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.
I can see it in his eyes—he’s locked me out. Only, this time, he can’t call off the job because he’s home. I’m the one in his space. Regret is painted all over his face. Fuck you, Foxx.
“Your phone is ringing,” I say, glaring at him.
He looks at the screen again, then back to me.
The world pauses—it stops spinning on its axis—as I await his reaction. Internally, I beg him not to leave. I beg him to stay. But externally, I’m not about to give him that satisfaction.
He sighs and walks out of the kitchen.
Tears fill my eyes out of rage … and pain. Fuck. You. Foxx.
I listen as his footsteps fall down the hallway and then as a door clicks shut.
My lungs strain for air. My heart squeezes tight. My brain sorts as fast as it can through everything that just happened.
And everything that didn’t.
And everything that won’t.
I grab my phone off the counter, find the number I’m looking for, and hit the green button.
You want me to take care of myself? Will do.
CHAPTER 8
Bianca
Astrid: The car is 10 minutes away.
Me: Thanks.
Astrid: Let me know when you’re at the airport.
Me: I will.
Astrid: I would feel a lot better if you let me loop Landry Security in on the plan.
Me: Absolutely not.
I find my purse on the counter and fish out the auction receipt. At least it was for charity. I leave it beneath the Dijon mustard, finding some satisfaction that I won’t have to think or say that charity line again.
The house is still as I pull open the front door and shut it softly behind me. Balmy air kisses my skin, but I shiver, nonetheless. This day has been so messed up. I just want to go home, climb in my own bed, and sleep until I’ve forgotten this happened.
Who does Foxx think he is, ghosting me every time he gets uncomfortable? I scoff. He thinks he can preach to me to take care of myself—act like he’s worried that I’m not in a good place—and then turn around and dismiss me like I’m inconsequential. He acts like he knows me so well. He doesn’t know me that well at all, or else he would know I’m not putting up with this bullshit.
“Well, hello.” A voice off the side of the deck makes me jump. “Easy, there. I’m Kixx, Foxx’s dad.”
My heart thunders, and I grip the railing for dear life.
Kixx steps out of the shadows and into the light from Foxx’s porch. Oh, the genes in this family are strong.
From the striking resemblance, I could’ve picked this man out of a lineup as Foxx’s father. The same build—broad shoulders, strong arms, sharp bone structure. Heavy brows. Adorable yet sexy grin.
He rests his forearms over the railing on the other side of the porch, careful to keep a respectful distance.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “I was taking out the trash and discovered that my grandchickens shit all over the concrete slab where I keep the waste containers. Had to clean that up.” He makes a face. “They’re almost as bad as Banks.”
I grin. Banks again? This guy must be a handful. I want to ask him about him, but considering I’m pissed at one of his other children and don’t want the conversation to venture in that direction, I leave it alone.
“Grandchickens?” I ask instead.
“It was probably Rita. She just laid her very first egg this week and thinks she’s big stuff.”
I laugh softly. Why can’t Foxx be this easygoing?
“Where’s Foxx?” he asks, his brows pulled together like his son’s do when he’s curious.