Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Yeah, that’s called basic decency.
The three of us catch up on the auction details, and when we’re done, Layla gathers her canvas bag from the living room. “And I’m going to prep for tomorrow’s video shoots. Winged eyeliners don’t make themselves,” she says.
I look away because some days, it’s damn hard putting on a poker face.
Like when I think about the first time we talked about winged eyeliner…and other first times.
“Did I tell you Cyn loves your videos?” David says as he walks her to the door, while I head to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. “Maybe we can double date with Kip. My mom told me about the date.”
Wait.
What in the ever-loving hell?
“I had no choice. I had to throw her a bone,” Layla says, with a what can you do sigh in her voice.
But what the hell did she do?
“I can’t believe they wanted you to go with him to the auction,” David says as I pick up a pan to clean.
Oh, hell no. She’d better not bring a date there. I scrub the pan harder.
“You can’t believe that? They tried to set us up again,” Layla says with a laugh.
“Fair point. I shouldn’t put anything past the matchmaker twins,” he says.
Out of the corner of my eye, he hugs her, and a plume of jealousy rages in me. But this fire isn’t over my son.
It’s over this asshole Kip.
“Bye, Nick,” she calls out as she leaves.
“Bye, Layla,” I bite out, and I hope, I really fucking hope, my irritation doesn’t show through.
When David strides into the kitchen, he gives me a look like he can smell my annoyance. “You okay?”
I need to get it together. “Just this damn pot. Needs so much scouring,” I mutter as I attack the clean surface. Then, because I am obsessed, no matter how hard I try to fight it, I give in a little more. “So your mom tries to set up your friends?”
David laughs, like this is nothing to him. “Evidently. Layla’s mom does it to her too. She’s got a date with that guy after the auction.”
I nearly rip the handle off the pot.
I can barely concentrate as I head into the office on Friday. When I reach the corner suite, Kyle springs up from his desk, says hello, and updates me on calls and research reports he’s compiled for me, and I just grunt out a thanks then shut the door to my office. I’m heads-down most of the morning, buried in research, a pen in my hand as I take written notes, but I swear I have read the same sentence twelve million and ten fucking times.
Who the hell is this Kip Jackass?
I won’t google her. I won’t go down that dangerous minefield. I won’t violate her privacy.
But fuck it.
I need to know who the hell she’s dating.
Kip Cranston.
The second his photo appears, I hate him with the rage of a thousand black tar suns. I flip the pen in my hand back and forth as I study this asshole. He’s a frat guy. A fifth generation Yale legacy. Just like Rose. He likes classic sports cars.
Oh, that’s original.
I bet he expects women to bend over backwards for him.
I bet he thinks he’s great in bed because he has family money.
I bet he doesn’t listen to what women want.
I bet…
There’s a cracking noise. What the fuck?
Ink leaks all over my hand. I just broke a pen.
I stare slack-jawed at the black splotch on my hand. “What is wrong with you, man?” I mutter.
I head to the restroom. At the sink, I scrub, and I scrub, and I scrub.
The ink is still there ten minutes later when Finn strides in and glances at my palm. “You broke a pen again.”
“Yes,” I mutter.
“You haven’t broken a pen since Millie wanted to know if you’d join the country club with her. And she flipped a lid when you said no.”
I seethe over the painful memory. “I hate country clubs,” I grumble.
“I know that, buddy,” Finn says, then meets my gaze in the mirror. “Is this about a woman?”
No point lying. He’s been onto me from the start. “Yeah. Someone I can’t have,” I say, then I leave.
Early that evening, Layla arrives at my place right as David’s leaving.
“Always taking off,” she says playfully as he grabs his phone from the table by the door.
“Fingers crossed. I’m checking out a sublet. Then popping over to a shelter in the Bronx and picking up the golf clubs from Kip’s. We can all meet back for food and maybe come up with a plan for picking up the rest of the items?”
“Sounds good,” she says, then he waves goodbye to her and to me before he rushes off.
“He’s less frazzled,” she remarks as she sets down a canvas bag, then follows me to the kitchen.