Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 275(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 275(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
CHAPTER FOUR
Elle
“Hey, Elle. Want to grab some dinner?”
I looked up from my computer screen to find Clark Samson standing in the doorway to my office. My stomach wanted to say yes to dinner—it was almost six and I’d eaten a bag of gummy bears from the break room vending machine for lunch—but every other part of me knew it had to be a no. Clark had been asking me out for several months now, and it didn’t seem to bother him that I declined every time.
“I appreciate the offer, but I have to finish this column,” I said.
“Aw, come on. You can take a quick break for sushi. I heard you like that new place a block over.”
That was an understatement. I loved Sushi Now. I’d had lunch delivered from there three times last week. Their salmon rolls were life changing.
“I really can’t,” I said, hoping a succinct no would work.
Clark walked into my office and sat down in one of the upholstered gray chairs across from my desk. I mentally groaned; I’d been hoping to finish this column within the thirty minutes so I could pick up a pizza on the way home and watch the newest episode of Vanderpump Rules.
“Writing about the McGann verdict, huh?” he said. “I saw it on the budget.”
I gave him a tight smile. Writing about the guilty verdict from a grisly double murder trial had made for an emotionally tough day; I really didn’t want to talk about it.
“Yep,” I said.
“That guy’s a fucking monster.”
“Agreed.”
He picked up my Montblanc pen from its holder on my desk, grinning as he eyed it.
“More or less than I make in a year?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Clark had tried several times to get me to tell him the cost of the luxury pen set my grandparents had gifted me when I graduated from NYU. Same with my Louboutin heels and my Tiffany watch.
It was common knowledge that my maternal grandparents were wealthy. My Grandma Lottie came from a wealthy family and my Grandpa Edgar had made his own fortune in pharmaceutical manufacturing. Burr Pharmaceuticals was well known.
I was proud of my family not because of their money, but because of the people they were. My grandparents had attended every softball and volleyball game I’d ever played as a kid, and they’d done the same for my brother with his activities. We’d spent summers with them at their Cape Cod home, Grandma teaching us how to bake and play pinochle and Grandpa teaching us about boating. They’d funded an entire wing at a children’s hospital in Los Angeles.
My mom passed away from cancer when I was nineteen, and my dad didn’t take her loss well. My grandparents had always been a rock-solid presence in my life.
“Was that your stomach?” Clark asked.
I smiled, because my stomach gurgles were so loud they were undeniable. “I didn’t say I wasn’t hungry, I said I have to finish this column.”
He looked at his watch. “I could wait. How long do you need?”
“I just want to finish this and go home. It’s been a long day.”
He took the hint and stood up. “Next time. And thanks for not writing about the Coyotes this week. I like it when the players are willing to talk to me.”
He’d said it in a teasing tone, but it rubbed me the wrong way. The newsroom, which the sports department was part of, was separate from the opinion writers for the Chronicle. I didn’t care if hockey players liked or talked to the sports reporters here; that wasn’t my concern or my business. And my columns were none of Clark’s business.
“Have a good night,” I said.
“Yeah, you too, Elle.”
He gave me one more longing look from my office doorway before leaving. Clark was a nice guy, but I had no interest in dating someone who worked at the same paper I did. There were too many ways it could go bad.
Besides, who had time for dating? I worked until at least six during the week, and I spent my weekends resting, cleaning, doing laundry, seeing friends, and getting in a little outdoor time when the weather was nice. I hadn’t had a relationship in more than four years, and I was happier on my own. I liked not answering to anyone.
My last boyfriend, John, had been hard to break up with. He knew about my trust fund and had envisioned us getting married and him opening his own bar. Paid for with money from my trust, of course. And anytime I’d objected, he’d told me I was an unsupportive partner.
I’d never know if a man wanted me for me or for my money. Even though I saw it as my grandparents’ money, the five-figure deposits they made into my bank account every month were mine whether I wanted them or not, and so was the trust fund. I appreciated their generosity; it had allowed me to build a writing portfolio in my early twenties that had landed me my dream job at twenty-seven.