Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
It was impressive, yet boring. Or so I thought until I reached the end of the hallway. The library. Sensing Shortbread’s sanctuary, I stepped inside. I was right. It smelled of her. A scent I recognized from the debutante ball. Of baby powder, roses in bloom, and a deranged woman.
I ran my finger along the spines as I strolled past books, crushing gum between my teeth to relieve some annoyance. They were cracked, the leather abused. Shortbread clearly wasn’t gentle with the things she cherished. She had a fitful nature, a goliath temper, and a tongue that could slice through metal. I couldn’t imagine her with someone like Licht, who was the human answer to a radish.
Dallas was a versatile reader. The genres varied. From romances to thrillers. Fantasies to detective mysteries. The only thing to stand out was the fact that she was the proud owner of all thirteen books in the Henry Plotkin world. A blockbuster series even I knew about. It revolved around a young wizard learning to use magic to transport late loved ones back into the land of the living. Henry Plotkin and the Mystic Potion. Henry Plotkin and the Girl who Dared. Henry Plotkin and the Magic Wand. I bet that last one sounded better in the author’s head.
“Don’t touch that.” The bite in her voice lashed across the room.
I grabbed the book on principle and turned to find Franklin in front of me. She marched forward, snatching it from my hand. Her puffy eyes told me she’d spent the past hour crying.
“Dal is a huge fan of this series. She pulls all-nighters outside of bookstores on Christmas Eve to buy the new books when they release. No one’s allowed to touch those. No one. Not even me.” She guided the book back to where it belonged, then pivoted to me. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Not interested.”
“Take me, not her. I’ll be your girlfriend … your wife … your whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m strong. I can take it. And you’ll never be bored with me.”
Franklin was a less refined version of her sister. Not as beautiful. Not as tempting. And—probably—not as reckless. She was also very distinctly a girl. Though I possessed no morals to speak of, putting my dick in a high schooler’s mouth was where I drew a limit.
“Your offer holds no allure for me.” I slid a hand into my front pocket. “I’ve already got more Townsend on my hands than I desire.”
“Please.” It came out as a demand instead of a plea. She stood tall, staring me dead in the eyes. I wondered where the Townsend sisters got their spine from, because it sure wasn’t from Daddy dearest. “We fit better, you and me. I’m more pragmatic, she’s more …”
“Unhinged?”
She bared her teeth. “Impractical.”
I leaned a shoulder against the shelf. “There’s only one problem.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not a pedophile.”
“First, I’m nineteen, you jackass. Second, you don’t want to marry her. Trust me.”
I had to give her one thing—she was smart enough not to appeal to my heart, probably sensing I didn’t have one.
“And why’s that?”
“Because she’s in love with Madison.”
That caught my attention. Unlike her father, I assumed Franklin discussed such things with Dallas. I also remembered Shortbread complaining about Madison’s infidelity.
I studied her, almost interested for once. “That so?”
“Yes.” Ire singed her eyes. “Take me. I’m unattached.”
“Also: unfit.”
“She’ll never love you.”
“I’ll try to carry on.”
Her demand metamorphosed into a desperate plea. “Romeo.” She sauntered into my space, running her hand down my tie. Her fingers stopped just above my navel—and only because I snatched her hand before she cupped my junk. I’d sooner be seduced by a rotten egg sandwich than this child. Franklin leaned closer, still, pinning her flat chest against my upper stomach. “Let me prove myself to—” Stepping back, I let her fall and tumble onto the carpet, face-first. She groaned, her mouth inches from my loafers. “You sick bastard.”
I used the tip of my loafer to kick her phone away. The device turned on its back. On her screen, the recording app flashed. A setup. Very One Tree Hill.
Franklin scrambled to her feet. A deep frown stamped on her face. “Know what? I’m actually happy you’re marrying her. She won’t stop until your life is ruined.”
“That, I can believe.”
Her lips parted, preparing to launch into more verbal diarrhea, but my phone’s ringtone informed me that Shortbread’s two hours were up.
“Go call your sister.”
“I’m not your secretary, ass-face. You go get her.”
It’d be my displeasure.
I saw my way out of the library and up the winding staircase to the second floor. Shortbread’s room stood at the end of the hall.
I knocked. “Time’s up.”
No response.
Rather than repeat the entire process again—I knew she wouldn’t budge—I pushed the door open. If she was indecent, fine. Nothing she hadn’t offered to show me before. But Shortbread wasn’t naked. Nor was she crying hysterically in a heap of emotions, perched on a windowsill like a damsel in distress. She was, in fact, sleeping peacefully on her queen-size bed, still in her dressing gown, Cheaters dancing on her television. A single snore rattled her shoulders.