Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
It. Had. Driven. Her. Bananas.
Catie felt like a troll for it. “He’ll make some equally nice woman a lovely, lovely boyfriend.”
“You? Feeling guilty crushing a poor helpless guy to mush? Hah.”
Twisting around, she pointed the lipstick brush at him. “I can be super nice, thank you very much.”
He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. “One time you did give me half your chocolate bar,” he said in a musing tone. “Then you shaved off half my hair while I was asleep!”
A laugh snorted out of her. “You deserved that, you ass. You made fun of my bikini.” It had been the first time she’d worn one, and she’d been self-conscious about it. Danny hadn’t been mean, hadn’t commented on her body at all. All his digs had been about the color of the bikini—a perfectly innocent yellow—and about how she’d wasted good money buying it when he could’ve just cut up his old shirt for her.
Now he shrugged. “Yeah, I was a dickish teenage boy, but in my defense, I didn’t know until then that you had boobs. It screwed with my mind to realize you were a girl.”
“As opposed to?”
“Caitlin, the Nemesis.” Like she was her own species.
That tickled her. “Fair enough. You’re not like the rest of your family to me. You’re Daniel, the Nemesis.”
They grinned at each other before she turned her attention back to ensuring her makeup was as she wanted it. Then she picked up the hair goop and worked it into her hair. She was going for a slicked-down wet look. Simple but classy, and it would pull attention to her lips and clothes. Because she freaking loved the suit.
Daniel wolf-whistled when she exited the bathroom.
“Shut up, you idiot.” But she was smiling as she went to grab the suit from the wardrobe. “Out,” she said. “I need to put this on.”
Rising in a fluid move, he sauntered out with that easy grace of his. She’d never tell him, but she loved watching him move on the rugby field. The media had called him a “young god” more than once and she had to agree. Yes, Jake was gorgeous too, and just as muscled, but in her secret heart, she thought Danny the better-looking and sexier of the two.
Not that she’d ever used that last word until now, not even in her own brain.
“Ignore, ignore, ignore,” she muttered for the umpteenth time and shrugged off the robe to reveal panties of black lace and a bra she’d bought while out earlier. It was cut in a way that meant she could wear it under the jacket without it showing. Jet might want her naked under his stunning creation, but she liked the way the bra plumped up her boobs—which despite teenage Danny’s shock—weren’t exactly huge.
Cup size B was as good as it got for her, but they were nice and round, and she had no complaints. Bigger breasts would’ve made it difficult for her to run.
Pants on, she sat down to make sure her sparkly silver sneakers were solidly fitted to her prosthetic feet. She lock-tied the laces so they couldn’t come loose. Because if they did, she might go ass over face. She also used the set of tools on her bedside table to double-check the connections between her rods and feet.
This was an experimental system that she’d been testing for a couple of months and so far she was loving its relatively lightweight design—especially given the extensive range of motion in the ankle and foot.
She dropped the most important tool in the little silver clutch she was taking tonight. That tool went everywhere with her. Then she got to her feet and pulled on the jacket, waiting until after she’d buttoned it up to look in the mirror. “Not bad, River,” she said and turned to check the view from the back.
Happy, she slipped on the hypermodern diamond necklace Jet had sourced from a jeweler—on loan to Catie for the night. It dropped down against her cleavage in a slew of jagged icicles, lying against the vertical scar of a childhood heart operation. Postoperative complications meant the scar wasn’t as faded as it otherwise would’ve been.
That line of rigid white against her skin didn’t bother Catie, and she’d never bothered to try to hide it—it was the reason she’d survived as a baby, was a sign of life. She’d even done a photoshoot to help fundraise for the pediatric cardiac unit that had saved her life; the stylist had put her in a shirt of darkest autumnal brown, its open sides bracketing the scar.
After doing another twirl in front of the mirror, she said, “And I’m ready to rock.” She checked she had her phone in her clutch along with a fifty-dollar bill and a credit card.
“Never leave home without enough cash to get back,” Ísa had told her when she’d become old enough to go out on her own.