Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
A cozy little nook perhaps?
A lofted study?
I’m surprised to find what appears to be both. A loft at the top of the stairs with a small couch, television, and bookshelves. A small desk. Ottoman with a tray on top.
Huh.
From what I’ve gathered from Kate about her friend who lives here, it’s only Posey plus her best friend, who owns the house.
The girls in the sweatpants?
I’m not a creep, really, although I am curious. And bored. And in need of a temporary reprieve before jetting out the front door.
My excuse for being curious enough to come up here is self-preservation and not wanting to get roped into the drama unfolding downstairs.
Three closed doors.
One half bathroom.
Which door do I choose to knock on?
Eenie, meeny, miney, moe…
I knock on one door. Wait. Listen.
No answer.
Move to the next door. Knock. Wait.
Repeat.
“Excuse you?” a voice from behind me asks, startling me. Turning, I see the door across the hallway cracked a hair, the young woman from the dining room peering at me with a scowl. “Can I help you with something? Are you lost?”
I smile. “I was just exploring.”
“Exploring?” she deadpans, still not smiling back even though I’m being charming. “Meaning what? You’re just being nosy?”
I snort. “Nosy? Hardly.”
The door inches open, and she crosses her arms. “Oh? What are we calling this then?”
“I’m hiding.”
“From who?”
“The blonde.”
“The blonde?” That makes her laugh, and her shoulders relax. “Her name is Claire, and…” She pauses. “She’s lovely.”
Lovely?
Yeah, she’s cute. But I wouldn’t describe anyone as lovely. Flowers are lovely. Fields are lovely.
Sunsets and kittens are lovely.
Claire? Was hot.
“She and the brunette were closing in on me, so—” I shrug, plate of food suspended in my hand. “Here I am.”
She cocks her head to one side. “And?”
And… “Why couldn’t you be convinced to introduce us?”
Arrogantly, I lean against the doorjamb opposite her, crossing my legs and arms, knowing it’s a flattering pose for me. It shows off my arms in this tee shirt.
“Convinced to introduce you?” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know you, sir, so why would I introduce you to Claire? And by the way, this isn’t a bar. This is my house, and it’s a Thursday.”
“This is my house, and it’s a Thursday,” I mimic her, not purposely being an asshole though I’m coming off as one.
“Let me be clearer than I was with Claire. I couldn’t be bothered to introduce you.”
Ouch. Way to take me down a peg or three. Her tone says it all: she’s irritated, and here I am, trying to be cute and clever.
My hand go up defensively. “Point taken.”
She remains in the doorway a bit longer, arms crossed, not feeling the need to fill the gap of silence with idle chatter—a skill few people acquire. Police use it. Therapists use it.
I use it when I’m negotiating to get people to ramble.
I stand silently.
She stands silently, face impassive.
Finally, she sighs, unfolding and slowly refolding her arms. Her eyes never leave my face.
I don’t notice her foot at the base of the door, not until she’s giving the wood a nudge forward. The door closes ever so slowly, the gap getting smaller and smaller like an elevator door sliding shut.
“Hey!” I blurt out, shocked that she’s about to shut the door in my face. “We were talking!”
A stifled laugh comes through the inch-wide crack. “We weren’t talking. You’re being weird.”
I’m being weird?
“I’m not weird!” I indignantly argue, mouth falling open. Not a single soul alive has ever called me weird. “I told you—I’m hiding.”
Her face is barely visible through the gap, but I see her brows lifting.
“Whatever you say, Jack.”
“My name is Eli. My client is Jack.”
Another laugh. She knows damn well what my name is but probably doesn’t care, the brat.
“I’m shutting the door,” she announces. “Bye.”
Slowly…
Slowly…
It’s like she’s melting into lava.
“What am I supposed to do? I can’t go back downstairs.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
My mouth gapes, and I can’t see it, but I swear she’s rolling her eyes. I can practically hear it.
Loud sigh. “There’s a couch right there. Make yourself comfortable.” She pulls the door open a hair. “Do not be there in the morning, or I’m calling the cops.”
The door clicks closed.
Crossing the floor, I knock.
It slides back open. “What.”
“Uh.”
That’s it. That’s all I got.
A man who negotiates two-hundred-million-dollar contracts is at a loss for words over a woman wearing sweatpants, who now has her hair up in a messy bun and is wearing glasses.
She squints at me through the narrow opening. “Just something to ponder while you’re creeping on my stoop. I’m seriously considering getting out the taser and zapping you with it.”
If it’s possible, my mouth gapes farther. “Excuse me?”
I sound prissy because no one has ever threatened me with a taser. Have I had people threatened? Absolutely. Have I seen people get tased? All the time at the stadium. Overzealous fans—super fans who turn to stalking will almost one hundo get zippy zapped.