Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Can you open your gate?” a woman’s voice says, oddly cheerful.
“What for?” I frown, suspicious as hell.
By now, everyone’s heard about the scams where some schemer comes to the door asking for help. They always show up with three beastly guys on standby, ready to split your skull open and steal everything you’ve got the minute they’re through the door.
“Delivery for Mr. Dexter Rory,” she says. Does it sound a little like she’s trying not to laugh or is it just my imagination? “I’m sorry it’s so late. I have paperwork from a Mr. Haute’s office. High priority.”
Shit, shit.
I should’ve known Forrest Haute would find a few more ways to be a massive pain in the ass.
“I’ll be right up,” I mutter.
Groaning, I punch the button to remotely open the gate as I climb the stairs to the ground floor.
Paperwork. At this damn hour.
The man should really tell his people that some things can wait for morning, no matter how urgent. I’m practically snarling as I see a small figure standing behind the front door, the privacy glass currently set to frosted.
“If this is from Mr. Haute personally,” I start as I throw the door open, “you should tell him he can wait until—”
I freeze.
This isn’t one of Haute’s lackeys, not unless I’ve tripped into a parallel universe.
It’s her.
All cinnamon-red hair and evil green eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. She tilts her head and looks me up and down, assessing my every movement.
Slowly. Like she has all the time in the world.
Goddammit.
And here I am, sweating like a horse and dressed like a gym rat.
“Expecting someone else?” she asks as she steps past me into the foyer, without an invitation. “Sorry to intrude—but not really. I just thought I should check out our home, sugar.”
A breeze blows in with her like Satan himself laughing. I slam the door with enough force to rattle the house.
“What the hell are you doing here, Miss Winkley?”
“Oh?” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “You mean you don’t like unexpected visits? That’s a shame.”
Teeth, meet tongue.
She’s got me there.
I want to rip into her, machine gun reasons why this is inappropriate, rude, and just fucking weird.
Only, it’s not when I’m the asshole who went there first.
I targeted her family as a means to an end.
“I’m sure you’re upset about earlier, and for good reason. To be fair, I never invaded your home and private space. I wouldn’t dare,” I say gruffly. “The Sugar Bowl is public and open to anyone.”
“Not when it’s closed,” she snaps, turning those green eyes on me like jade knives. She walks around, checking out the dark Madagascar flooring, the open-plan kitchen housing high-end smart appliances, the large Japandi style lounge with the mounted TV on the wall, and a fireplace set in immaculately handcrafted woodwork. “Jeez, dude. Can you save some real estate for the rest of us?”
My lip curls.
“Miss Winkley, I’m warning you. I don’t need this tonight.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s a shame.” Her voice is hard. “I kinda know the feeling. It’s such a drag when you’re ambushed after a long day, isn’t it?”
Damn her to hell and back.
When I decided to be an idiot, I knew she’d be pissed, but coming to my house is some next-level fuckery.
“I left you a number. Call it,” I growl, following her through the kitchen as she walks through my place like it’s an art gallery.
My plate’s still there from dinner, half a large enchilada sitting on the counter, waiting to go in the fridge.
“Oh, but darling, I thought we were engaged? Isn’t it all the rage now to play house the minute there’s a ring involved?” She sends me a long look over her shoulder, eyes hooded. “Besides, fair’s fair.”
“Fine,” I snarl, leaning on the kitchen island. “Fucking fine, you win. You want to come here and see where I live? Have at it, sweetheart. Help yourself to a drink and stay a while.”
Her mouth hardens like she’s sucking citrus. For the faintest second, my mind goes other places, wondering what she could really do with those lips.
But she just strides toward the stairs.
“Where’s the basement? I’d better make sure there aren’t any dead bodies down there, and you can bet I’ll be rummaging through all your closets—God, I bet they’re enormous—just to check for skeletons.”
“I know you don’t trust me—”
She pins me down with another glare. “Don’t trust you? After all this, you expect me to just settle and take your word for anything?” She finds the stairs leading down and flicks on the light. There’s so much repressed anger in her movements I’m surprised she doesn’t combust into a pile of ash.
“Nothing but a couple guest rooms, a reading area, and my home gym,” I explain. “If you’ve never seen a gym before, knock yourself out.”
Her eyes flash hellfire.
Shit, I didn’t mean it like that.