Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
“Twelve hundred,” shouts a man from the back of the room, his bidding process slower than Fabien’s and without a jersey accent.
“Twelve fifty.”
Like the slowest snail race in the world, the bids increase in increments of ten until Fabien is declared the winner, and Octavia takes my spot on the stage.
“Thank you,” I murmur to Fabien when he assists me off the stage.
When he mistakes the shiver darting through my body from Caleb’s icy stare targeting me from across the room, he removes his suit jacket and curls it around my shoulders. “Is that better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Any further conversation is pushed aside for shock when Octavia’s bids climb high and fast. Within seconds, they’re in the five figures before Jack wipes out the competition with a thirty-million-dollar bid.
“What the hell?”
Fabien laughs at my shocked mumble before nudging his head to the man Jack just knee-capped without warning. I can’t see his face, but I’m sure it’s as burning hot as mine feels when Fabien says, “With a net worth of twenty-nine point nine million dollars….” When I peer up at him with my mouth hanging open, he continues, “… it makes sense as to why Jack bid thirty million. He knew he couldn’t go any higher.”
“Gossip journalist?” I cringe, confident that is the source of his knowledge. Nothing against gossip journalists, but they are the worse of the bunch. Their stories are full of holes, they don’t care about the truth, and most of the time, they run a story without fact-checking it at all.
Just earlier this week, a man came to me with a story he assumed I’d be frothing at the mouth to write.
I wasn’t.
It was nothing but a dumpster fire that had its run decades ago, and it should have been buried in hell to rot with the man the stories were about. They’re far and few between, but priests like Priest Maskretti give good priests like my father a bad name. People sniff out the only rotten egg in the bunch and assume the rest are just as tainted.
Rarely is that the case.
My father isn’t a saint, but compared to Priest Maskretti, he is as close to virtuous as you can get.
Fabien throws his head back and laughs, drawing my focus back to him. “No. I’m an investment banker. I’ve made a lot of men in this room very very rich.”
“And you still shake hands with them. That must be hard.” This is a positive of alcohol heating my veins. It brings out my witty nature.
Regretfully, it also allows me to make bad decisions.
Like assuming Fabien’s laugh is cute instead of iffy when he barks out with a chuckle, “Very much so, but the commission makes it bearable.” I wonder if I am misjudging him when he adds, “But money doesn’t make a man. Actions do.” He glides his eyes over the room. “Nearly every man here has earned their worth. They weren’t handed it.”
“Including you?”
He drops his eyes to mine before dipping his chin. “I’m a SouthPark boy who crawled his way to a Seattle office with a view.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear before asking, “You?”
“I’m a SouthPark girl who crawled as far as an office with a view of the bathroom.”
He assumes I am being funny.
I’m not.
Our new office space is great, but I don’t have a window, much less a view.
After failing to work out why the party-like atmosphere nosedived to the dreariness of a funeral, Fabien returns his eyes to mine before asking, “Can I drive you home?”
“All the way to West Seattle?”
My unease slips away when he mutters, “I said I crawled my way to an office space with a view. A penthouse isn’t in my league just yet.”
While smiling about his bad attempt at modesty, I scan my eyes across the rapidly dwindling crowd. When I spot Octavia being guided into a room hidden behind thick curtains by Jack, I say, “Sure. That will be great. Thank you.”
After gesturing his hand to an exit on our left, Fabien places his other hand on my lower back to guide me that way.
We’re almost in the clear when our exit is suddenly blocked by a steaming mad brute of a man who seems three times his size since his chest is puffed out with jealousy.
I’m about to tell Caleb to budge, but he talks before I can. “You forgot to pay for your bid.”
I’m confused, but Fabien clicks on remarkably quick. “How could I forget that type of luck?” Caleb’s anger radiates out of him when Fabien digs his wallet from the breast pocket of his jacket—the jacket I’m wearing. “Is a check okay?”
Caleb slants his head and bows a brow, his haughtiness at an all-time high. “Do I look like a clerk?” When Fabien fails to answer him, he nudges his head to Elaine. “She’ll cash you up.”