Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57502 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57502 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
“She had her moments.” His gruff voice held notes of regret, grief, and anger.
All of which could be faked. Or a byproduct of his encounter with Conrad. Or stem from a realization that his new girlfriend was the worst. Or Mason was truly in mourning. Just because he and Hannah divorced didn’t mean they’d hated each other. Unless they had. But either way, Abifail was the weak link in their relationship. Jane comprehended the gold digger’s core motive for everything: more money.
She broadcasted an all-innocence expression at the other woman. “I’m told you write books. Is this a recent hobby or a long-term thing?”
Abigail’s eyelids slitted. “That’s an abrupt change of topic, but all right. I’ll move on and pretend you aren’t asking for a so-called investigation. To be honest, I was born an author.”
Jane would verify with Tiff. Not that she knew what an affirmative verification proved. That Abigail hadn’t used the club as cover? Or that she had a long con going? Maybe Jane should put the newly engaged “author” to the test. “Beau and I are both writing books, too.”
“Manuscripts,” Beau corrected without missing a beat.
“Yes, manuscripts,” Jane agreed with a nod.
Her target’s eyelids slitted further. Afraid of competition or feeling like a cornered rat?
“How nice for you.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Trying not to go “super villain” again, Jane modulated her tone. “I’d love to read what you’ve written. Or at least hear something of your story. A quick synopsis even.”
Abigail raised her chin. “Yes, I’m sure you would.”
“I’ll be in the car,” Mason announced. His gaze slid to Jane and Beau for a split second. “Don’t be long.” He stalked off as his companion sputtered.
Oookay. Talk about a hasty getaway. Both suspicious and logical. Either his emotions had gotten the better of him, or he’d feared inadvertently revealing too much.
Abigail humphed, lifted her nose even higher and sauntered past Jane, saying nothing else. Not so brave without a partner, huh?
“I don’t know the details of her book, but I do know my story will smoke hers,” she vowed to Beau.
“I’m sure it will,” he said, whipping out his phone to fire off a text.
Her cell beeped, and she checked the screen.
Beaudyguard: If you don’t send me the first chapter of your novel tomorrow morning, I won’t send you a brief on Maggie. Consider me your muse.
Jane sucked air between her teeth. “Oh! You fiend! You may find yourself cursed into a frog within the pages of my story.”
“A price I’m willing to pay. Though a cursed frog isn’t a punishment. Toads get kissed by pretty girls and turn into princes.”
“Not in my tale.” As they rode the elevator up to the third floor, the desire to see Conrad magnified. Words built upon her tongue, ready to spill out. She had so much she wanted to tell him.
More potted plants greeted them as they stepped off the elevator. Seriously, what was with the abundance of foliage?
This floor was a flurry of activity, housing the police dispatch and 911 services, in addition to Conrad’s new office. Two wooden chairs flanked either side of a door, simply bearing the word “office”. The desk for Conrad’s non-existent assistant remained vacant.
“I’ll answer some messages while you speak with your lover boy,” Beau said, slumping into the assistant’s seat.
Did Jane detect a note of envy? She knew Beau once had—perhaps still had—secret feelings for a woman he’d guarded. “One day, a wonderful lady will sweep you off your feet. Maybe you’ve already met her, maybe you haven’t. But either way, your best days are ahead of you, not behind you.” Jane patted the golden stubble on his jaw before skipping to Conrad’s office.
After giving the door a little tap, she entered the small space. At his GBH office in Atlanta, only certificates of recognition had graced the walls. Not a single picture or personal memento. But that wasn’t the case here in Aurelian Hills. Nope. A framed snapshot of Jane sat next to his computer screen. An original campaign flyer she’d disastrously designed–making it appear as though they were already married–hung on the wall with an elaborate frame. On the bookshelf behind him perched one of her favorite hats. A red wool cloche with a black satin ribbon. Jane thought she’d lost it, but she must have left it in Conrad’s SUV. Instead of returning it to her, he’d brought it to his office to…what? Have something of hers close by? Ahhh. Her heart melted.
“—warrant for any manuscripts they’ve written,” he told the person on the other end of his cell phone. Pause. “Correct.”
They’ve written, he’d said. Not he, not she. They. Plural? Meaning every member of the writer’s club? Or specific members like, say, Abigail and Maggie? Did Conrad already know about Christopher’s girlfriend?
The lawman grinned at Jane and ended the call. Striding over to wrap his arms around her, he asked, “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”