Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial my driver, ignoring the missed calls from my father, mother, and Parker. It’s too fucking early, and I don’t have enough caffeine in my body. Noticing the time, I grimace because I’ve rearranged my schedule only for Boudreaux to be a damn no-show. If I lose this damn place, I’m going to be pissed as hell, and while I may not be well-known in this area of the world, that doesn’t mean I’ll let shit lay where it lands. Being told this deal was locked and loaded only for it not to be means heads are going to fucking roll.
“Mr. Wescott, how may I help you?” Scott, the hired driver I acquired while I was down here the last time asks. Using him again was a no-brainer. Him answering on the first ring solidifies that I chose the right company. At least one thing is going right today.
“Can you please pick me up at the location you dropped me off? From there we’ll be going to LeBlanc Inn,” I tell Scott.
“Of course. I’ll be there in less than five minutes.” I hang up, thumb through my texts until I get to our group chat.
Me: The purchase may fall through; I’ll catch you up as soon as I make it to the Inn.
Since Parker called only minutes ago, it’s no surprise he’s the first one to respond.
Parker: Fucking sucks. You need Sly?
Theo: The fuck? You’re suddenly ready to up and move to New Orleans and can’t close a deal?
I laugh. This motherfucker is lucky he’s like a brother to me. The house I’ve purchased is currently being rented back to the owners until the end of next week, and this deal, well, it should have been closed by the end of this week.
Me: Your mom wasn’t saying that last night.
Theo: Eat a bag of dicks.
Ezra: The fuck? It’s too damn early for this shit. Call if you need something. It’s the least I can do.
Parker: I’m out. Call later.
Me: Give me a couple of hours. We’ll do a conference call.
I pocket my phone when I hear footsteps approach and figure it’s Boudreaux, but when I look up, it’s the last person I expected to see—the woman I left in her bed last month, soft, sweet, and sated. That’s not the case now. Nope, she’s walking toward me with fire in her eyes, and it’s zeroed in on me.
THREE
Amelie
After the shock of my life, I got my shit together. Nothing like needing to pull your big girl panties up, get dressed, put on makeup to hide the inner turmoil that hovers on the edge of a hot pot of water ready to boil over, only it’s inside of you. Sadly, this time, it’s not from partying with my best friend, Eden. The hurricanes we consumed months and months ago are not threatening to come up. Oh no, it’s having to explain to my mom and eventually Boston that there’s a proverbial bun in my oven. I was in for the second shock of my life when I walked downstairs to the argument of all arguments, so loud that I’m sure our guests could hear it, but I wasn’t about to break it apart. My mother was losing her shit, rightfully so. My great grandparents owned more than LeBlanc Inn. We own another building, this one along the riverfront, sitting empty for the time being. Since there’s a divorce in the works, my mother’s attorney suggested to leave it alone because starting another venture capital would be stupid and might open her up to a fine-tooth comb to be raked across the coals, you know, like paying him more money when he has plenty of his own.
“How could you!” I yell as I walk up to Boston, for so many reasons I can’t even begin to get them all out. Never in all my years did I think I’d come face to face with the father of my child, who’s turning out to be a snake in the grass. How I’m able to compose myself is beyond me. I’m the type of person who when I get mad, I become emotional. Tears do not threaten to come; they roll down my cheeks without my permission. I’m not a baddie with an attie, meaning my bad-ass persona is not there, and neither is my attitude. Sure, I’ve got the red hair to prove I’ve got a temper, but other than that, I’m a pile of waterworks when I’m riled up. My father should be selling his own building. He owns it free and clear but didn’t take care of it through the years, leaving it riddled in shambles, so it’s less habitable than the one Boston is currently standing in front of, which means it’s less profitable. If you guessed my father was a greedy money sucker, you’d be right.