Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Play along?
Play the fuck along?
Isn’t that what caused this problem with Dumas in the first place?
Hannah smiles unevenly as I pin her with a look.
If it were anyone but Destiny Lancaster, this wouldn’t be so impossible.
If we didn’t already have a sour history, maybe I’d give this more than a second thought.
Never mind the fact that Miss Lancaster is disturbingly attractive. The kind of face that could be splashed on billboards all across the US, beautiful and classy and unfussy.
It’s a real fucking problem.
Frankly, I don’t trust attractive women.
After Vanessa—who doesn’t have a dime on this girl—and every other woman who’s fucked me over in the past, I’ve made it a policy not to trust their motives blind.
Plus, Destiny is an influencer on top of it.
She thrives on public perception and personal brand popularity, regardless of whatever noise she makes about not being in it for the fame and followers.
Again, I see shades of Dumas.
Acres of beauty wrapped in an ego, designed to sell a product and market herself.
Only, this could be worse because Destiny is five times prettier than Dumas and probably just as accustomed to using her looks to get ahead.
That’s not something I ever want to be a part of again. Not after the latest meltdown.
“I understand the theory behind it,” I say. “While I admit I didn’t pay much attention, I’m certain she wasn’t the only applicant. We had over four hundred, didn’t we?”
Hannah hands me her tablet. “Just take a look, Mr. Foster. One more time. Read her profile. You can spare me five minutes.”
“Three minutes.” I snatch it away from her and scroll through Destiny’s Instagram.
Damn.
This isn’t the same little fireball who ambushed me with my kayak.
Not the girl I saw in the office, either, barely holding in her real thoughts, all polish and cool professionalism.
In these bright photos, she’s outdoorsy and candid, grinning at the camera with a ponytail and baseball cap on a trip to the Cascades.
I fight the urge to admire the dirt streaked on one cheek.
It’s too messy and natural-looking to be pre-planned. Same goes for the creases in her clothes that really look like they were left there by a hard day of hiking.
Besides, I’m pretty sure no phony influencer would be caught dead with a husky in their face, slobbering all over their sunglasses. The dog’s dried drool still shows up on the lenses a few pics later.
The photos are well chosen and authentic, I’ll give her that. All flattering natural light and stunning backdrops.
She also isn’t using her assets, posing in a bikini or some skintight jean shorts like most influencers might if they’re using sex appeal to sell their brand.
Still, I’m naturally skeptical.
There’s got to be a few skin pics somewhere here, right? A bikini set or a link to a certain 'Fans' site where desperate men drunk on good looks will throw money at her for a chance at getting in her DMs.
But no, the more I scroll, the less skin I see.
There’s a trip to Alaska a year ago. Whale tracking, by the looks of it, and she’s stuffed in a bulky orange jacket on a rickety science ship.
The woman’s out there in the wild, taking selfies at safe distances from wildlife while she’s out jogging in the brush among the bears and foxes. No dog this time.
She plies the seas with researchers, willing to be wet and miserable to save creatures who don’t know their entire species is under the gun.
When it flips to Hawaii, I flick through long posts about endangered monk seals. From the comments, it looks like she actually gets people to pay attention to the plight of the animals beyond the adorable images. Her write-ups are thorough, informative, and attached to cute animal pics intended to tug on the heartstrings.
The same lanky husky shows up in the later shots, a smaller puppy then, frequently licking her face.
I keep scrolling, gritting my teeth.
Yes, I’m still searching for that inkling that she’s not a good person. One more walking ulterior motive like everyone else with good looks who plays up their generosity and good deeds.
I’m annoyed that I can’t find it.
No smoking gun.
It’s just as infuriating how much she glows in every photo.
Not because of her makeup or layered clothes hiding a body made for sin, but because the vast majority of her shots are so natural.
It’s damnably compelling.
I stop on a familiar picture of Alki Beach from the day I went out kayaking and tap on a Reel next to it.
In the video, she’s still red-faced from yelling at my stubborn ass, the wind tossing her hair back in a messy ribbon that slaps the side of her face.
Somehow, she’s still got her shit together enough to talk at length about harbor seals.
This version of her, all wind-swept hair and bright smiles, is almost hotter than the tall, dressed-up bombshell I just chewed up in my office.