Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“So you’re taking the job?” It comes out too fast.
Something strange passes over her face.
“Well, yeah. I think. We do need the work. I have to throw together a quote, but it’s going to be amazing money. It could keep us sitting nice for years.”
Then why does her smile look so pained at the windfall?
There’s something weird there.
Something odd.
Something hurting her, tied to this job.
“Miss Grey, do you not want to work for Xavier Arrendell?”
No smile now. Her lips crease bitterly, but they’re trembling and she won’t look at me.
“It’s not my business, I know,” I tell her. “If I’m getting too nosy, go ahead and tell me to—”
“I’ll answer that if you can remember my name.” She cuts me off.
“Talia,” I say softly, and this time she almost flinches.
Lowering her eyes, she compresses her lips, rubbing the tip of the straw along the crease of her mouth.
“I don’t know. Something about him makes me uncomfortable. But maybe it’s just all the rumors swirling around his family and bad vibes and I’m just overreacting. Being around him makes me feel…” She pauses. “…unsafe, I guess. But we do need the money. Desperately.”
I want to reach for her hand. Hold it. Grip it until her fingers stop shaking so much they rattle the ice in her cup.
It’s not my place.
And if she knew me—the real me—she might feel less safe with me as she does with Xavier.
“Is your business struggling, Miss—Talia?” I ask, probing carefully.
“No, it’s fine.” She shakes her head, crimson curls swaying against her jaw and shoulders. “It’s just, everything costs so much these days. Sometimes things you really need.”
She’s being vague.
It’s damn sure not my business, and I sense it’d hurt her to pry.
This is the first time we’ve been more than two strangers passing on the street, not even meriting a second glance. The first time we’ve ever spoken.
So I’ll mind my manners.
But I may need her to help me mind someone else’s, too.
Leaning forward, I brace my arms on the table.
“What if I could give you a better reason to take the job?” I ask, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Would that make it easier if it was worth more than money?”
Talia’s brows wrinkle.
She throws back such innocent confusion that the guilt punches me, but I started this and now I’ve got to finish it.
“What… what do you mean?”
Leaning back, I glance around the morning-lit street.
People are scattered around us at the café’s little outdoor tables. Others pass by now and then, strolling and not really paying attention as they bustle between shopping and errands. Though there are a few curious glances that make it clear some of the town’s gossipier citizens wonder what the oddball cop and the furniture store girl are doing together.
“Not here,” I mutter. “Would you be willing to meet me again tonight?”
“Tonight? Uh, what? Officer Ainsley, what are you asking?” She stares at me, flushed and stammering.
“Not what you think, I promise.” Not that I wouldn’t goddamn mind, but I keep my eyes firmly on her face, ignoring how her flustered look heats my blood. “I need to tell you some things about Xavier Arrendell. I’d also like to ask for your help.”
“Help? Oh,” she whispers, pinching her fingers against her straw. “You mean like… something you can’t tell me here?”
“It’s not the sort of thing you talk about in public, no. Take that into consideration before you decide if you’ll meet with me.”
That’s my cue to go.
While she goes ash-white, staring at me wordlessly, I push my chair back and stand. Her head tilts back to follow me.
“I’ve got to get to work,” I say, pushing my empty chair back in. “Try to stay awake for the next twelve hours. If you feel dizzy, suffer any hearing loss, ringing ears, blurred vision, call 9-1-1 immediately.” I flick my gaze over her.
She looks fine, like she never even fell.
The only signs are the rips in her pantyhose and a few scuffs on her pink dress, but head injuries can be serious. That seems to jolt her out of her daze.
“I told you I didn’t hit my head.” Her voice is small yet composed. “I really am an old hand at controlled falls.”
“Your phone number?” I ask.
There it is again. That blush that makes her so bright, so vulnerable. Her fingers jerk against her cup, making it shake loudly.
“…number? Why?”
“So I can check on you. Make sure you didn’t give yourself a concussion,” I say. “And so I can text you where to meet, if you’re game.”
“Oh. Okay.”
It’s too long before she moves, before she mumbles something incoherent and thumps her cup down on the table so she can bend over and rummage around in her purse.
She comes up with a business card reading A Touch of Grey. Her name is on it—Talia Grey, Store Manager—plus two phone numbers, one labeled (O) for office and one labeled (C) for cell.