Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“What the fuck’s the deal with you two?” Mason asks.
“I don’t think Mr. Black appreciates appreciation.” I lower the glass, seeing he’s on his way over. So it’s time for me to vacate the vicinity.
“What?” Mason says as I drop my towel and collect the keys for the store cupboard. I’ll clean the toilets. Anything. It beats hanging around this ice box.
“I’ll be in the restrooms,” I say, leaving the men to hire the flesh.
“The cleaners have sorted the restrooms already,” Mason calls.
Damn it. “I’ll hoover the office.”
“They did that too.”
Bloody hell. “I’ll check the stock.”
“I did it, Pearl.”
I sigh, exasperated, and face him. “There must be something I can do other than . . .” I shut up when I feel Brad close behind me, and I give Mason a pleading look. He doesn’t catch it.
“I don’t pay you to stand around looking like a spare part,” Brad snipes, brushing my arm as he passes.
“I was just—”
“Do some fucking work.”
I flinch, holding my tongue. I must not retaliate. I must not retaliate. I tell myself every time he riles me. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t. I have to start succeeding every time. “I know your meanness isn’t because you dislike me,” I say to his back, my mouth speaking words while my mind is telling me to shut the hell up. “It’s because you dislike yourself.” Again, I wonder what the hell his problem is. Have done for the past six months. He’s so . . . angry. Why?
Brad slows to a stop and faces me, and the temperature plummets once more. His chiseled jaw ticks. His chest rolls. “I don’t like women with smart mouths.”
That’s bullshit. I know he loves Beau and Rose, and they both have very smart mouths. “Then you had better shut me up.” What the hell are you doing, Pearl?
“Don’t tempt me,” he growls lowly, his cold stare adding another layer of freezing to the room. “Now get some fucking work done before I fire your ass.”
“I have an arse, Mr. Black.” I smile sweetly and walk past him. “And you can kiss it.”
Mason coughs, Nolan balks, and the woman—I’m yet to learn her name—looks between us all, bemused. I’m asking for bloody trouble, I know it, and yet he’s unearthed the fight in me that was knocked out of me—literally—many years ago. And maybe my smart mouth is being unleashed because I know deep down these men don’t hurt women.
Mason and Nolan follow my path back to behind the bar, eyes cautious, and I pick up another glass and my towel, ready to get polishing again. But no sooner has the cloth met the side of the tumbler, I’m on my way back out from behind the bar, virtually being dragged.
“A word,” Brad growls, hauling me across the club by my elbow, my hands still full. I don’t fight him, of course I don’t fight him. Giving the boss a bit of lip is one thing. Giving him a right hook to the face is another matter entirely. I wish I could, though. I’ve experienced fear of unthinkable levels. Brad Black doesn’t scare me. Besides, like I said, these men don’t hurt women.
“This doesn’t feel like a word, Mr. Black,” I breathe. “This feels more like physical assault.”
He laughs, but it sounds demented, and I look up at him, seeing he looks quite demented too. “You have no idea,” he snaps, pushing me into the office and slamming the door. I have no idea? The fucking idiot.
Roughly releasing me, he gets up in my face, forcing me to take some backward steps. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that in front of my staff again.”
Fuck off. “What about when you’re not in front of your staff?”
“Ever!” he roars, knocking me back slightly with the force.
“Okay,” I say, quickly finding my senses. It’s hard amid the absolute disbelief I’m feeling, which is coupled with something else entirely unrecognizable.
Brad recoils, stepping back, his expression fleetingly unsure. But he soon finds his rage again. “Fucking apologize,” he hisses, back up in my face.
I look him directly in the eye, not wavering, not melting under the heat of his hard, blazing stare, his breath, and anger. “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry you’re such a wanker. I’m sorry I tried to be grateful for saving me. I’m sorry you don’t like me. And I’m sorry I find you insanely attractive even though you’re a complete arsehole to me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
Another recoil, this time faint. It’s as if he wasn’t expecting me to comply. His eyes dart across my face. “Why aren’t you crying?” he asks, his voice rough. Deep.
I shift on the spot, uncomfortable with the sensation of my blood heating. What the hell is that? “I only cry when I’m scared.”
“You’re not scared?”
“Of you?” I ask. “Do you want me to be scared of you?” Because it really feels like it. He’s a bloody conundrum. He saved me. Reassured me. Calmed me. Cared for me. And then when I tried to thank him, he was a complete and utter bastard. What the hell am I supposed to make of this? And the feelings he’s provoking? It’s such a strange concoction of anger and . . . desire? Is that what this is? Jesus Christ.