Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Have an olive.”
And just like that, we’re giggling. It’s not real, this temporary lightness I find with my best friend. It’s a Band-Aid barely covering a bullet hole, blood gurgling over the sides, but I’ll take it. It gets me through the rest of the afternoon of meetings, one fitting I squeeze in at my office, and a Skype call about, surprisingly, an upcoming photo shoot. For a model, I’m not modeling much lately.
“Go ahead and knock off, Sof.” Stil glances at her watch. “Whistle’s ’bout to blow.”
I tap my phone to display the time. Only five thirty. All that’s waiting for me at home is my cold, cavernous penthouse apartment and a stack of takeout menus. And my dusty vibrator, which is a sad substitute for the real thing and has been sorely neglected of late.
“I think I’ll work a little longer.” I wave my hand at the door. “You go on, though. We’ve been at it since eight.”
“I’m not leaving unless you do.” Stil sets her mouth at that mulish angle I know too well. “I’ve already called the car around.”
There’s nothing I’m doing here that I can’t do from home, but I want to hole up and hide from the world a little bit. My hesitation costs me because Stil marches over and snatches the profit projection from my limp hands, tossing it into the trash.
“You threw it away!” I tip toward the trash can, dismayed to see vinaigrette dressing all over my document. “Stil!”
“Oh, keep your thong on. I printed the damn thing. You have a soft copy in your e-mail, so don’t go all nineteen seventy-two on me. Nothing’s ever lost in the digital age.”
“But, I don’t want to go home.” I bite down on my lip, feeling bruised by all the hard knocks of the last week.
“Yes, you do. I’d come with you, but I got a thing.” A smile softens that obstinate mouth. “You can kick your shoes off and curl up by the fire with your profit projection.”
I’d rather curl up by the fire with my…what do I call Trevor? I still haven’t figured that out. Though he seems to know exactly what to call me.
Mine.
I miss the way his kisses persuade me to forget everything else. How his hands caress me until I’m burning for him, straining toward him. I miss the heat of his eyes on my body when he thinks I’m sleeping.
The light in my office goes off.
“Stil, come on. Turn the lights back on.”
“Nope.” She grabs my purse and props the door open with her back. “Get up. Get out.”
She chatters all the way to her apartment, where we drop her off with waves and kisses and promises to see me in the morning. As soon as she’s out, the temporary smile falls right off my face and lands in the quiet she leaves behind. There’s nothing to sustain it. I raise the privacy partition between me and the driver/bodyguard person whose name I can’t remember right now. I miss Baker. He was so much more than just my driver, and I feel the loss of him more than the loss of my parents, which says a lot.
I’m so grateful that we aren’t ambushed by a group of reporters in my building’s underground parking lot. That happened once, but we’ve tightened security considerably since then. What’s his name takes the silent ride up the elevator with me, his eyes trained straight ahead with unswerving professionalism. I’m tempted to kiss him on the cheek to see if he would blush like Baker, but considering the slut factor Kyle’s team has raised considerably, that could be misinterpreted.
“Good night.” I unlock my door, turning to face him. “See you in the morning. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure, Ms. Baston?” He peers past me into the darkened apartment.
“Yeah, I only need security when I’m out.” I step inside, hand already on the knob. “Have a good night.”
As soon as I step into my apartment, I know something’s off. The air feels charged somehow, not like the desolate box I left this morning that only I’ve been inside of for the last few days. And the smell permeating the apartment—heavenly. I would assume I’d left something in the oven, except I don’t cook—ever. Should I call what’s his name back?
Fool that I am, instead of fleeing the scene of a potential homicide—my own—I walk as quietly as I can down the hall toward the kitchen. It’s bright in there for an ax murderer, and most psychopaths in my limited experience don’t hum “Benny and the Jets” while sautéing dinner. As soon as I enter the kitchen, a well-muscled back and broad shoulders block whatever is cooking on the stovetop. Even though my potential perpetrator faces away from me, I’d know that burnished hair, the wide, hard slope of those shoulders, and that ass anywhere.