Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
I step back and listen to Brock making small talk with them. Haughty But Nice can’t wait to show off its latest wares, and he assures them the Winthrope Seattle is the perfect venue.
My phone vibrates in my bag.
I frown.
Hopefully it’s not anything with Dad.
Even though he’s on the mend, the old worries linger.
My phone buzzes impatiently again.
I glance over at Brock, hoping to catch his eye and signal my need to slip away. But he’s still gabbing and they’re talking about—Edgar Allan Poe?
I wonder what I missed, but there’s no time to worry about it now.
“Well, I see your grandparents are here from across the pond. I won’t keep you.” Lincoln wraps a protective hand around his wife’s waist. “We need to mingle anyway. One of the rare times I can get my little poet out of the house.”
Dakota throws back her head and laughs, her blond curls rippling. “Would you stop? We went out with Wyatt and Meadow for those stupid cinnamon rolls last week.”
They walk away, totally caught up in a conversation only they understand.
“Guess who we saw coming off the dance floor?” Ross Winthrope asks, reappearing next to us with his wife.
“Who?” Brock asks.
“Basil Von Grant from Harriet Hotels. He thinks he’s taking first place at the awards this year,” Ross chuckles. “Can’t fault a man for being the eternal optimist, I suppose.”
“Not happening.” Brock shakes his head. “That award is ours.”
Ross nods. “It’s certainly nothing to stress over. Our reputation—”
“Is better than ever,” Brock finishes too quickly. “This will be our fifteenth year in a row. I’m not letting you guys down.”
Emily nods. “We’re proud of you either way, but winning is always better.”
Wow. I wonder if Brock’s competitive edge actually comes from his grandmother.
Then my phone thrums again, stealing my attention.
Jesus, I need to get out of here.
I reach over and gently touch Brock’s shoulder. “Someone keeps texting me. I need to make sure it’s not Maisy.” I nod politely to the elder Winthropes and make my escape.
The large balcony is closer than the exit, so I make my way over and push through the doors. Cool air hits me in the face as I fish out my phone.
Four missed texts from Jenn.
Holy crap, Pippa. Are you okay?
Of course, they show up in reverse order, so I’m going to have to keep reading to find out why I wouldn’t be.
Again, I’m so sorry.
My heart stops. Why is she sorry?
Please don’t be mad at me. I just thought it would be best if you heard it from me first, if you haven’t already.
Huh? What is she talking about?
Hey, I know you’re busy, but there’s something you should see. The local tabloids and gossip blogs are going crazy and since it’s about you...
I tap on the link attached and my entire world shatters in slow motion.
EXCLUSIVE: WINTHROPE HEIR DIPS HIS PEN IN THE COMPANY INK; JUNIOR COPYWRITER GETS AHEAD!
Right under the cursed text is a picture of Brock and me, our lips locked with Andy’s leash tangled around us. We’re right outside his house in the back. I think it’s from last week.
I don’t need to read further to know what this story is about.
He just told his grandparents the company’s reputation is on the way back up.
Now that’s a lie.
All because I’ll be the reason Winthrope loses the award, helpless fodder for Seattle’s brutal tabloid gossip mill.
What do you even do when your life detonates with a problem you never imagined?
My first instinct is lie down and die.
But as I stand in the cool night air, trying not to panic, struggling to figure out what the hell my next move should be, I wait for a miracle that never arrives.
Instead, I look up and see Brock rapidly approaching. He’s still smiling, meaning it’s my job to obliterate his happiness.
“You ran off so fast I lost you in the crowd! Everything okay?” he asks.
I nod because I don’t know how to find the words.
There are no right words for this.
He comes closer, though, concern flashing in his eyes.
I instinctively throw a hand up to stop him.
I don’t know why.
It’s not his fault, but I don’t want to confirm all the ugly rumors here in front of everyone.
“Piper, you’re pale. What the hell’s going on? Is your father okay?” He reaches for me again.
I stagger backward, bumping the railing behind me and hating myself with a passion.
“Sunshine, be careful. We’re on a second-floor balcony.” He’s quiet for a minute. “Have I upset you?”
“No, we just... Can we please go back to the hotel? Now?”
He eyes me slowly, as if he’s trying so hard to read my mind and failing. “We can, but you need to tell me what’s got you rattled.”
With a deflated sigh, I hand him my phone.
The blog post is still on the screen in all its hellish glory.