Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“It can be,” Dr. Vickers sweetly insists. “Depending on the how, the where, the why.”
“Yeah, we’ve been over this. I don’t technically have any of that information, but you seem interested in playing a weird hospital version of Clue, so, fuck it. I’m gonna guess it was Peaches, in the champagne room, with a bottle of flavored lube that matches her name – again.”
It’s impossible not to sneer.
I know about where she’s worked.
I know about all the jobs she’s not proud of – including the one she has mentioned.
I know about these things because they were in her file when she first came to the estate.
The same file I instructed Park to burn.
The one I never thought I’d need again.
“And what exactly were you doing in the champagne room, Brynley Elizabeth?” huffs Lauren clearly unhappy. “You said you don’t strip.”
“Dance.”
“Brynley.”
“You work for a really rich dude. You should know that branding – above all else – matters.”
A really rich dude?
As in she doesn’t even know my name?
Who I am?!
What I…look like?!
“I can’t go in there,” I immediately croak to Hamilton on a shake of the head.
“What?” Befuddlement darts into his expression.
“She doesn’t remember who I am.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“That means she doesn’t remember my face.”
“Wes-”
“That she doesn’t remember I fucking look like this.” A harsh finger is pointed inward. “That she doesn’t remember that she fell for a fucking monster.”
“Wes-”
“I can’t do this…” leaves me in tandem with my body backing away from the doorway. “I can’t convince her to fall in love with me again.”
Chapter 5
Brynley
Delicious scents of a male’s cologne gently touch my nose, and I feel oddly helpless in my hopes of ignoring it.
I mean…why should I ignore it?
It’s the first thing I’ve been surrounded by that doesn’t smell like lemon or cleaner or overworked and underpaid.
Letting my eyes flutter open presents me with two surprises, both of which – like the aroma – are welcomed.
The masked male bearing one blue eye and one brown has barely finished adjusting the wordsearch booklet on my bedside when I purr, “You smell like heaven, sir.”
An undeniably delectable rumble is poorly swallowed prior to his stare finding my crystal one. “Do you compliment all the men in your presence?”
“Just the ones I deem worthy of it.”
Despite the black fabric that stops just below his eyes blocking his expression, I manage to catch what I believe to be the tiniest twitch of a smile.
Wonder what the mask is about.
And why he’s got on gloves too.
Hospital cat burglar?
Is that a real thing?
“This is where you say, ‘thank you’ to the beautiful, half-naked woman whose room you’ve snuck into,” I sassily tease on a salacious smirk.
“You are beautiful, Brynley,” leaves his mouth without hesitation. “You always have been.”
There’s no stopping my eyebrow from arching. “You know my name.”
“I know much more than that,” he declares before spinning on his heels in a hurried exit. “And I didn’t sneak here.”
“Prove it.”
The declaration successfully stops his stride.
“Stay.” I drag myself up to a sitting position, doing my best to ignore the aches the painkillers were helping keep at bay. “Show me that you know me.”
His face curls over one shoulder igniting an unexpected ache in my chest.
McCoyhavefuckingmercy, why does this moment feel eerily familiar?
We’re talking like that “Cause and Effect” episode of Next Gen.
Holy shit!
Am I stuck in some sort of weird time loop?!
Wait.
Is my brain trying to send me a fucking message like Data sent himself?!
What is it?
That I really do know this man?
That he’s looked at me like this before?
Was there…pizza involved?
Why is the word laptop coming to mind?
Laptop and porn?
Concern instantly cakes itself on his expression as he cautiously accuses, “You’re remembering something.”
I opt out of being completely honest by replying, “A bizarre episode of my favorite show.”
“Star Trek: The Next Generation.”
“Ooooo,” slips out in a playful fashion, “mystery man with the great ass might know me after all.”
Against his own volition he chortles. “I know that you’re wondering if it feels as good as it looks.”
“Well, I am now.” Giggles cause my muscles to contract, sparking additional pain, but I ignore it. Lean into the warmth that somehow feels equally familiar and foreign instead. “Way to go, Mr. Millionaire.”
“Wilcox.” At that, he turns back to face me. “Weston – um – Wes Wilcox.”
The name triggers throbbing in my head prompting me to wince.
Fight the instinct to cringe.
Rather than explore the new discomfort, I opt for discovering more about the tall and delightfully scented man that was skulking around my hospital room. “And what do I call you?”
His black sweats covered figure sways itself back towards me. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Various variables.”
“Such as?”
“If you’re flirting with me.” He scoots the visitor chair closer to the bed. “If you’re pissed at me.” Sitting in it occurs next. “If you’re teetering between the two.”
It’s impossible not to snicker. “And what do you call me?”