Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
As he steps out to make the call to Dean, I sit back on the couch, the phone still clutched in my hand. Turning it off again is tempting, but I know I can’t keep the world at bay forever. Instead, I start typing out replies—to Heidi, to work, to my mother—reaffirming that I’m okay, that I’m safe.
As I type, I try my best not to open any of Jason’s messages, however, I accidentally click on one.
Jason: Answer me, you bitch.
I snap the phone off, my nerves kicking into high gear. Orion watches me from across the room.
“You okay?” he asks me.
“Just Jason,” I say, holding up my phone.
“Can I take a look at the messages?”
I swipe my phone back on and open up Jason’s message thread. I hand it over, not looking at anything he’s sent.
Orion slides next to me on the couch, reading the messages, and I can tell he’s getting angry while reading.
“You okay?” I use his same question back on him.
“Yeah. I’m just going to screenshot some of these messages to myself.”
I smile, for all the wrong reasons. I smile because now I’ll have Orion’s phone number, which is something I should not be smiling about. However it makes me happy, and a bit more secure knowing I can get a hold of him if needs be.
He makes quick work of my phone, and slides it into my hand. “Now you can reach me if you ever need me.”
I suck in a breath, thinking about how badly I need him. I say a quick thank you, and close my eyes, wishing more than anything things could return to normal.
But I don’t think anything will ever be the same again.
Chapter 12
Orion
I stand on the front step of the Green family’s mansion, shoulders squared, my eyes scanning the lawn like I always do in a new place. Always be on guard. Always look for any threat. The late-afternoon sun casts a shine across the sprawling estate, highlighting every painstaking detail of the ornate columns and intricate ironwork. I can’t deny it—I’m a little on edge. I didn’t grow up with money, so this is all new to me. However, meeting your client’s mother is one thing; meeting a client that your highly attracted to’s mother is another.
Briar stands by my side, her arm brushing mine briefly. The contact sends a small jolt of want through me. She offers a soft smile, like she can sense my need.
“You ready?” she asks, her voice low.
I take a breath, forcing a quick nod. “As I’ll ever be.”
Before she can respond, the massive double doors swing open. A tall, silver-haired man in a sharp navy suit appears, posture as impeccable as the foyer behind him. My gaze flicks over the entryway—high ceilings, a sweeping staircase with a lush red carpet, and a crystal chandelier dripping overhead. The place screams old money and refined taste.
“Hello, sweetheart,” the man greets Briar, his lips curving into a wide smile. Then his eyes land on me, warm yet assessing. “You must be Orion.”
I extend my hand, forcing a confident grin. “Yes, sir. Orion Locke. Pleasure to meet you.”
His handshake is firm, but not confrontational. “Harold Green. Come in.” He steps aside, gesturing for us to enter. My footsteps echo on the polished marble floor as we move into the grand foyer. It feels like stepping onto a movie set.
Before I can fully take in the beauty, Briar’s mother appears from around the corner, gliding toward us in a sophisticated yet understated dress. Her hair is pinned back, revealing a face that’s strikingly similar to Briar’s. Warm green eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles.
“You must be Orion,” she says, extending a graceful hand. “I’m Minnie Green.”
The moment I clasp her hand, she gives me a quick once-over, sizing me up. I try to keep my posture relaxed, remembering that I’m here to reassure this woman that her daughter is safe with me.
And she is fucking safe with me.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s a pleasure,” I say, offering my most polite tone.
Briar’s mother waves off the formality. “Please, call me Mrs. Green or Minnie—whichever you prefer.” She gestures for us to follow her deeper into the house. “Come along. Dinner’s just about ready, but I’d love to chat in the sitting room first.”
We pass through a large arched doorway into a lavish sitting room filled with antique furniture. Plush sofas in muted gold tones are arranged around a glass coffee table, and a massive fireplace occupies one wall. Oil paintings—landscapes, portraits—line the walls, each set in a gilded frame. The smell of fresh flowers mingles with the faint scent of something delicious cooking.
Briar and I take seats on one of the sofas, while Mr. and Mrs. Green settle opposite us. A maid discreetly appears, offering drinks on a silver tray. I politely decline anything alcoholic—best to keep my head clear—and Briar does the same.