Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Did you?”
“Don’t put that lawyer face on for me. You forget I know you.”
“Do you?” I ask. “Know me, I mean.” I lift my sunglasses from my eyes and slide them to the top of my head.
“What’s with the attitude? Damn, Rya.” She pulls back from me and shakes her head.
“I find it funny how you can stand here and pretend. Did you take acting lessons?”
“Acting lessons? What are you on about?”
And then, when I stare at her, her eyes widen with understanding.
“I know,” is all I say. “I know.”
“Look, let’s talk about it. Please.” Her usual cheerful tone seems almost desperate.
“You aren’t even going to deny it?”
“No. You already know. And I know once you have facts, you will run with them.”
“I do because facts never lie. Unlike you.”
“Wow, okay.” She glances around before she focuses back on me. “At least let me explain. Will you give me that?”
“Don’t you think you’ve had multiple opportunities to do that?” I question. “Like years,” I tack on.
“Fine. Okay. I get it. You’re mad. And you’re allowed to be. But I want you to know that, no matter what, I truly think of you as a friend.”
“One who was getting paid, though, right?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Were you or were you not getting paid to be my friend?” I ask again.
She hesitates, then quietly replies, “Yes, I was.”
Well, that is my answer.
“Lose my number and never contact me again.” I turn, and the doorman opens the door for me. “Ban her from my approved guest list,” I tell him, and he nods.
I don’t bother looking back as I hurry to the elevator and head to my apartment. I stroll straight for the liquor cabinet, pouring a generous glass of red wine and taking a swig out of the bottle for good measure. I flick off my heels, fall onto my sofa, and turn on the television. Right now, I need to do something mindless. It wouldn’t be smart for me to work. I’m too mad, and I may fuck something up, and I cannot afford to do that. Especially with all the heat on our firm this week.
I have people depending on me.
My phone rings. And rings. Eventually, I reach for it and put it on ‘Do Not Disturb.’
But before I realize I’m doing it, I’m already reading my emails.
His name pops up.
Multiple times.
I hate him.
And as I go to throw my phone down, I can’t help myself because I want to see what he says, what he’s doing.
And why is he still emailing me when I told him I wouldn’t marry him?
Because I won’t.
He can go fuck himself.
Dear Miss Ricci
Do you remember I know where you live?
Reply.
Crue.
“Arrghh!” I scream at his email. Is this asshole threatening me now? I was certain that saying “I won’t marry you” was as clear as “I’m not interested, now fuck off.”
My phone dings in my hand, indicating another email has come through.
Dear Miss Ricci
Knock, knock.
Open the door.
Crue.
My hands clench around my phone. He’s joking, right? There is no way he is actually here. And that’s when I hear it.
Knock. Knock.
On my apartment door.
I freeze, but then it comes again.
Knock. Knock.
Getting up and walking to the kitchen, I grab whatever I can find as a weapon, which just so happens to be a pair of sharp scissors, and I quietly move to the door. I look through the peephole to see Crue standing on the other side.
“I can hear you breathing, princess.”
This guy is out of his goddamn mind. I huff out a breath and pull open the door.
Crue’s gaze catches mine before it falls to what’s in my hand. “Do you plan to stab me?” he asks with a raised brow.
“Yes,” I reply without hesitation.
“Now, that’s no way to treat your future husband,” he scolds, sending a shiver racking through me. This guy has a one-track mind. I don’t know whether to be impressed by his laser focus or annoyed by his inability to take a damn hint.
“I won’t marry you,” I all but growl out.
He steps forward, and I lift my hand, holding the scissors. He plucks them from my fingers before I can do anything. Scanning his face, I see my bite mark still decorating his cheek.
“Drinking without me, princess?” He walks in without an invite as if he owns the apartment, scissors in his hand. I stare after him as he shifts to my kitchen and opens the refrigerator despite the bottle of red wine being in clear sight. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he turns back to me, where I’m still standing at the door. “You have nothing in your fridge.”
“I know that.”
“How? Or better yet, why?” He closes the refrigerator and goes for the cupboard, pulling that open next. It feels more like a shakedown than it does him searching for alcohol. When he’s met with the same thing, he shakes his head. “Do you starve yourself?”