Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“Welcome to my world, Blythe Blakley.”
* * *
“Well, he didn’t eat you alive,” Amanda states, rather disappointed. She leans against the doorframe with her arms folded.
I glance from my laptop. “I don’t know what you mean by that. And I’m not sure I want to know.”
She scoffs and makes her way in, taking a seat on the sofa. “Don’t play little miss innocent with me. You’re missing the morning-after glow I expected you to have.”
Taking off my glasses, I laugh at her presumption. “Amanda, I went to a business dinner, not a Tinder hook-up.”
Despite her evident disappointment, there’s a glimmer of hope. “Well, was there any flirting?”
“Maybe.”
She leans forward expectantly. “Who did the flirting?”
“Him, of course.” She raises a perfectly shaped brow. “And maybe a little bit me.”
“So, no sex?”
“No, not even a kiss. Kane was the perfect gentleman.”
She sighs, resigned to the fact that today there will be no juicy details. “Okay, so… what did you discuss about his project?”
I lean back in my chair and cross one leg over the other. “We’re going to do it.”
Her eyes widen. “Did he reveal more about it or tell you why he’s keeping it so secret?”
I shake my head, wishing my answer could be different. “He didn’t give me an inch. But I’m going to need you to set up a meeting with a…” I look to the circled name on the paperwork, “… with Kane’s second in charge, Joseph.”
“Consider it done. But wait one sec… so, you agreed to the project based on the same conditions set at the beginning?”
“That’s right.”
She laughs. “He must have worked you over real good.”
* * *
The clock on the dash turns 6:10, and as expected, Samantha exits the gym after her habitual HIIT session. With her gym bag slung over one shoulder, she’s busy texting and unaware I’m watching from across the road.
“Always glued to your cell but can’t spare a second to call your sister back,” I grumble.
Samantha crosses the parking lot, unlocks her BMW—a car well beyond her budget—and in a matter of seconds, she’s starting the engine and pulling out of the lot.
“Shit,” I mutter, accidentally hitting the high beam instead of the indicator. The light flashes Samantha in the eyes as she looks up the road checking for traffic. She squints against the glare, but I sink far enough down in my seat that she won’t see me.
“Damn German-made cars,” I curse, having to remember the indicators and lights are on the opposite sides. Peering over the dash, I see the tail end of Samantha’s car as she cruises down the street. Quickly pulling out, to the disapproval of the motorist next to me, I follow Samantha through the busy peak-hour streets. She drives in typical Samantha fashion, unnecessarily weaving in and out of traffic.
“You’re a mad woman, sister,” I murmur, then sigh in relief as she turns down a quiet suburban street. Pressing the brakes, I allow Samantha to put some distance between us. Although it’s dark, I can’t have her catching me. She slows and eventually pulls into a drive, turns off the engine and runs up the porch steps, disappearing inside. I park two houses away and take in my surroundings.
This is an affluent street, a far cry from where she last resided.
“What the hell do you do, Sammy?” I ask nobody.
Climbing out of the car, I remind myself to not look so purposefully stalkerish. No lights shine from the house next door, telling me the occupants aren’t yet home from work. A tall, wooden fence separates the properties, and I sidle up against it, sinking down beside the living room window where I see Samantha organizing her handbag for the night.
Unlocking my cell, I go to recents and hit Samantha’s name. Pressing the volume control to quieten the ringing on my end, so I hear it through the window, I watch as Samantha retrieves her cell, looks at the screen, carefully reads my name before placing it on the side table, happily resuming her packing.
“What the actual fuck, Samantha?”
Her behavior is growing more irritating, however, I know this isn’t her. Something’s going on where she doesn’t feel comfortable with confiding in me.
But what could have her so distant that she can’t even speak to her own sister?
I quickly type a message.
Me: Are you ignoring me on purpose?
Again, she picks up the cell, reads the message and places it back on the table without replying. It takes all the strength I have not to stand up and yell through the window, ‘Answer your fucking phone,’ because her behavior is causing me to now be doing things I’m not proud of, like becoming a peeping Tom.
My skin prickles with a sense of being watched. Scanning down the dark front yard, I’d be lucky to be seen by neighbors from across the road, yet without a doubt, there’s a pair of eyes watching my every move. I decide there’s nothing I can do about it if I can’t see them, and I’m unlikely to blow my cover just to catch them out.