Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Right now? I look down at myself. I can’t talk to Hunter in this. Then it hits me, for the first time fully, that Hunter is the winner. He’s going to see me in a whole lot less than this.
I feel tears of panic pooling in my eyes. Hunter West. Not some stranger I can forget. My Hunter. Except he isn’t mine—and now he knows I sold my V-card. I didn’t want anyone to know!
I bite my lip so the tears dry and I straighten my posture, determined to master my emotions. Marchant’s mouth is twisted into a curious frown, but before he can throw any more of his questions at me, I nod briskly, in a way I hope looks professional. “I’ll talk to him.”
He turns to go, but he turns back around to me before he reaches the door. “Scarlett?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I want you to know: Hunter’s my boy. He’s a good dude, and he’s got a lot on his plate. I mean a three-course meal of bullshit. So just make sure whatever happens tonight doesn’t turn into something else for him to deal with, okay?”
I’m so stunned, I can’t even nod. I just sit there with my mouth hanging halfway open, and after giving me a smile that looks almost sad, Marchant turns and leaves.
Holy cow.
I fold my arms around myself, trembling slightly. What is Hunter playing at? I don’t understand. I can’t believe he paid so much for me. Why did he do it? And ‘three-course meal of bullshit’? Does Marchant mean the Sarabelle thing? Hunter’s not a suspect, is he? I tell myself that obviously Marchant’s a drama king. Look at his job. Showmanship. Drama. I’m sure it’s nothing.
Still, I ball my hands into fists and bite my lip until I taste the tang of blood.
Pull it together, Elizabeth.
I can do this. I can keep my heart intact. Have no-strings, first-time-ever sex with Hunter, and go back home to Suri and Cross. I take a few deep breaths and start to feel a little better. Even slightly annoyed. Marchant doesn’t know what he’s talking about. There’s nothing vulnerable about Hunter. I’m the one who doesn’t need any extra bullshit. Hunter is invincible. Capable of eating me for breakfast in one big CHOMP.
I drop my head into my hands, feeling like I’m being tugged in ten different directions. A few more deep breaths, and I remind myself that I just can’t care. This is a one-night thing. Nothing more.
I’ll be glad to get rid of my virginity. And holy hell, am I grateful for the money.
As for everything else…I don’t know why Hunter bid on me, and I don’t care. I don’t have to. All I have to do is screw him.
I stand up, my black robe whirling around my ankles. I run my fingers through my long, loose hair and slide a tube of lipstick from the robe’s pocket. I can do this.
And I believe that—right until the moment the door swings open and Hunter strides into the room.
He looks rough, his smooth skin pale, his lips pressed flat. And dear God—that body. His massive shoulders draw my eyes, and my gaze falls down his flawless abs, visible through the tight, black T-shirt that’s the top part of his trademark poker outfit. Poker outfit? I look down at his pants, and yep. They’re the black jeans he always wears, along with big, black boots. He’s Stetson-less, though, and his pretty blond hair is a mess. His eyes, now fixed on me, are slightly red. I wonder if he’s doing cocaine. I’ve heard he used to. My stomach twists. He looks me over, same as I did him, and I realize with a jolt that he looks genuinely angry.
His mouth tightens a little more, and he nods at the door. “I’ve got my ride at the side entrance. Marchant says you’re ready to go.”
I lick my lips, looking into his face and searching for any hint of what he’s thinking. But he’s got a hell of a poker face. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean, that’s it? Are you expecting something more? A corsage?” he asks dryly.
I flinch. “No, of course not. I just mean...you look upset.”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Not so much upset as pissed.”
“At me?”
“Just pissed,” he says, folding his arms like he’s daring me to challenge him. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I have a strong gut feeling that it’s directed at me.
“I don’t want to go off with someone who’s angry at me.”
His gorgeous green eyes are hard as nails. “Then reject my offer.”
“No way,” I say. “I mean...I can’t. It’s done already.”
“Then go get into my car. You don’t have to like it.” His lips press flat. “I’m paying you, remember?”