Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
The tall counter between us can’t save him, but I’m not looking to be arrested tonight for assault.
Pressing my hands against the marble in front of him, I lean in really fucking close.
He looks up with a grin I’m tempted to knock the fuck off his face. “Welcome to—Mr. Westcott?” Fear consumes him, causing his teeth to chatter like an animated skeleton. “How may . . .” His words stagger out of his mouth, and then he gulps heavily. “I, um, help you?”
“You ever talk to her again, and I’ll ruin your fucking life.”
Straightening his bow tie, he has the nerve to keep talking. “I tried to apologize, but she left.”
“So it’s her fault that you’re a skeevy little fucker?”
“No, sir. I just—”
“How about this? You want to keep your job?”
“Yes, sir?” he replies, lowering his voice as he looks behind him to make sure the coast is clear.
“You want to keep your teeth?” When his eyes practically bug out of his face, I continue, “Have her belongings packed and delivered to my address before I return from dinner. Better not be you. Don’t dare step one foot in that direction or near her stuff. You understand me?”
“Absolutely, sir. I’ll have concierge take care of it. And I’ll be comping her stay as well. With my deepest regret, my apologies.” When I keep glaring, he gulps again. “Sir.”
“That’s what I fucking thought.”
I turn and head for the Escalade. The flames continue to stoke my anger just thinking about how Tuesday was treated. A fucking call girl? She was attacked only a few days ago, and now she has to deal with this bullshit? Is she not safe anywhere?
I push through the door and see Brady standing with his arms crossed over his chest. “Anything I need to handle?” he asks like he’s ready to torch the earth if I ask him to.
The guy’s built like a tank, but I don’t need his help. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t let you fight my battles.”
He shrugs, a grin sneaking onto his face. “Always here if you need me.”
We give a quick fist bump before I open the back door and climb in, sliding into the fog of tension that’s built up while I was gone. By the time I buckle in, Brady is pulling away from the hotel. He glances back, and asks, “West Village?”
“Yes,” Tuesday is quick to reply when I say, “No.”
“You still want to go?” I ask, dropping my chin. Her gaze never wavers from mine despite what little light drifts in from the signs we pass outside.
“I thought you did?”
“I’m in no mood to deal with crowds on a Thursday night.” Unlike usual, I’m struggling to shake off this confrontation. Why?
“Then we shouldn’t go.” She shrugs, turning her gaze out her window, but nothing about her response—from her casual body language to her tone—backs what she’s saying.
Giving in isn’t a familiar trait of hers—either before or after she lost her memory. She has opinions and shares them freely. Something I respect, but I also appreciate the honesty. So what has changed?
Silence builds, shifting the air between us as I stare at her, waiting for anything other than her sacrificing her night for me. When she doesn’t elaborate, I look out my window, uncertain how to proceed. Call her out, or let her be?
My knee begins to bounce from the waning adrenaline still coursing through my veins. I’ll be the first to admit that losing my temper is not good for my reputation. It’s not good for the firm, and if my dad gets wind of tonight, I’ll soon be dealing with a tense phone call. But I’m not in the wrong. I didn’t hit the fucker, after all.
That’s progress from back in high school when my brother, Harbor, and I got caught in a few scuffles. We never started it, but it was hard to walk away without finishing it. Not so unlike how I just behaved.
Anyway, the guy looked scared enough. I don’t see the weasel causing a commotion for fear of losing his job, so I should be in the clear.
I’m sure Tuesday would find it hard to believe I wasn’t always so buttoned up. “Classic” as she likes to call it. Or maybe she would after the display I just put on.
She glances over, her eyes lingering on my knee that’s still bouncing, and then raises an eyebrow before turning away. “Are you okay?”
“You were mugged, attacked, got a concussion, offered sex for money, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
“Yes.” Angling her knees toward me, she rests her hand between us on the seat. “How are you, Loch?”
“I’m . . .” I start but then let the question sink in. How am I? How the fuck am I?
She finally says, “Maybe we shouldn’t go to dinner.”