Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Then there’s the fact that she just happens to be insanely compelling.
There’s a good chance I might actually be the insane one, but I slip the card into my pocket and head back out of my office.
I smile at Marjorie as I walk past. “Just stepping out to get some coffee before I delve into meetings this afternoon.”
“Oh. I can certainly have them bring one over, or I can send someone to do that. You’re probably going to want an executive assistant, but for the time being, until all that’s sorted—”
“Don’t worry about that. I don’t need someone to get me coffee. I don’t mind going over one bit. The place next door? The one with the rat? Is it good?”
“That’s a great choice! Even just their regular coffee is delicious, but try the cold brew in any flavor. It’s to die for.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you,” I say.
“I’ll hold the fort down while you’re gone, Mr. Montfield.” She’s joking, but I have no doubt she will. Her smile is infectious, and I give another one back, even though I feel like it’s maybe a little too smiley. Not that smiles are bad. They’re great. I just don’t like to go overboard.
The Ratty Brew and Stew is so close that it almost touches my new building. I can’t say if I’m intrigued or disgusted by the name, but the giant rat head logo is pretty adorable. I guess it’s a good marketing scheme. The little ratty is giving two thumbs up, so the place must be all Marjorie promised it is.
I push open the door, and the first thing that hits me is the smell.
It’s not a ratty smell, but a divine I’ve died and gone to the best of coffee heaven smell.
The place is packed, but my eyes shoot straight to her.
There, in the middle, at an unassuming table by the window. The table is a small square with only one other chair not taken across from her. A large handmade mug is in front of her on the table. I couldn’t find a single photo of her online anywhere. She’s got her social media locked up tight, and though her name is all over the internet, related to pudding, there aren’t any images to match.
She’s not a blonde. Her hair is a stunning shade of red—not dyed. All that strawberry copper with the gold highlights set off from the sun coming through the window is all her. Her eyes are still the exact shade of green that has been etched into my brain for over a week. I thought I might have misremembered how gorgeous she was because of the shock factor involved with that date, but no.
She’s beyond lovely. Even looking exactly as herself now and not playing the part of someone else, she has an unmistakable aura I can’t even name.
My heart jolts as my brain internally defibrillates it with that information. My breath is all choppy. If she looked up and smiled, it would be dazzling.
But she doesn’t.
And that unguarded moment where I got to observe her is shattered as her eyes sweep the place and land on me. She doesn’t look surprised. She doesn’t look pleased. She doesn’t smile, and she doesn’t frown. Instead, a guarded expression falls into place, and oddly enough, it hurts. I can tell she’s set and ready for battle without trying to let me know that she’s set and ready. What she didn’t say in that card was let’s go to war. She said let’s talk.
I think it’s pretty much the same thing.
Chapter five
Evilla
Mont Montfield has this look on his face.
It’s half wary, half I don’t know what to expect, with a pinch of please don’t be a paranormal kind of shifter and turn into an alligator and eat my ass on the spot.
I don’t look welcoming. I’m not welcoming. Because we are not going to get along. He found out where I work, and he ruined my life on purpose. It’s creepy, and it’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay. Nothing is going to be okay again now that this man is my boss.
This meeting slash battleground happens to be a coffee shop, and at the last minute, Mont changes direction. He doesn’t approach me. He goes to the counter and orders something, probably a black coffee with no sugar and no cream. The extra bitterness would serve his personality just fine. If he were a coffee himself, he’d be entirely unpalatable—extra dark, just like his soul.
I wasn’t sure he’d come. I put that card on his desk as kind of a Hail Mary to be professional. I don’t want our personal problems getting in the way of my career.
What am I even saying? Personal problems? We shouldn’t even have personal problems. I don’t even know if I have a job anymore, let alone a career to worry about.