Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I’m supposed to be writing fiction, not getting lost in it.
I leap off the porch and hit the ground with my bare feet, wincing as I step on a huge thistle. I bite my tongue to keep in the hiss of pain, and I don’t reach for my foot. I’m already humiliated. I’m not going to up the ante any further.
I get out of the shot as Atlas uses the point-and-shoot from just about every direction. Not knowing what else to do, I trail after him like a pathetic stray puppy. As I follow him around, I can’t help but notice that his tush is very, very tight in those jeans, his muscles bulge and ripple with every movement, and his grin lights up the world a heck of a lot brighter than the sun. There’s just enough of a breeze blowing over the yard full of weeds that I keep having to part them, stepping carefully to avoid the prickly ones, as a delicious, spicy, clove-y scent fills my nose. It could be the weeds, but I’m sure it’s him—him in all his ghost-peppery glory. Okay, maybe not ghost-peppery. He doesn’t smell like a spicy burrito.
“I think I have everything,” Atlas says after going around the house and snapping picture after picture. We’re standing in my bedroom, which is extremely embarrassing, given that he just photographed the hole in the ceiling after looking at me with one brow cocked in question.
I wince at the hole as I point upwards. “Raccoons. Well, just one, but it scared the life out of me. It was the size of a jumbo bowling ball, and it fell through just about as hard.”
Atlas doesn’t seem at all perturbed by flying, feral furballs. “Don’t worry. We’ll get ‘er fixed up for you.”
His attention is drawn to the window, and when he smiles so wide that it just about splits his face, it cracks something in my chest too. “Everyone’s starting to arrive.”
I turn to see what he’s seeing, and it’s true. Trucks and vans of all shapes and sizes are rolling down the driveway.
I know this is real, but I still pinch the skin on the inside of my thumb and forefinger, and when it hurts, I suck in a breath. Somehow, by some miracle, I’m lucky enough that this is really happening.
CHAPTER 5
Atlas
As the day goes on, I can tell Victoria is getting more and more overwhelmed. The small two-story, two-bedroom house is alive with activity. There are so many people crawling through it, all with a different purpose in mind, that I feel like I’m being torn in eighteen different directions. I know I’m the one who is supposed to be supervising this, but no amount of watching contractor videos in the crash course I gave myself last night could have prepared me for this level of chaos.
Granny was absolutely livid when she found out I’d given my real name out, answered the phone, gone to someone’s house like a lovesick dork, and then promised to fix it up. She’s not tight-fisted with the money we’ve earned, but it’s supposed to be used for our missions and the general good of the world. I argued with her over the phone until she saw reason. Okay, so I told her this was for the general good and that since I’d already given my name out by mistake and Victoria had our company’s name, I was basically on the hook.
Granny told me to get in and get out. She orchestrated getting Alden and Lennox together with their ladies, and she put Ransom in a position where he met Ayana, but I guess it’s not on her agenda to have me going off on a romantic tangent.
I had to swallow that bitter pill back. Granny doesn’t control our lives, but, well, she controls our missions, and that means she technically controls our lives. If I straight up told her that I was interested in Victoria, she would have found her on her own, driven out, and entered into the Granny Inquisition mode, probably with two Glocks out and general craziness let loose and blazing. It meant she’d scare Victoria off before I ever got a chance with her.
Speaking of Victoria, the landscaper ran late and just got here, and he was asking me a thousand questions about what my vision was for the front and back yards. I put him off and told him I had to consult the real boss.
The problem? I have no idea where to find her.
After wandering around the house, even checking the nooks and crannies and closets, I escape outside. The air is so hot that it could sizzle bacon into a fine, dark, delicious crispiness, but I ignore the scorching sun and make a pass through the front yard, weaving in and out between all the vehicles parked down the length of the driveway and the small gravel patch that’s weeded over in front of the house. No Victoria.