Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Not even once.
I’ve clutched his business card between my fingertips, counted down from five to one, but the same two things always prevent me from taking things further.
The unknown, and the not-so-subtle red flags.
One or two of the latter wouldn’t normally be a problem, but the more time I have to separate his sexiness from his elusiveness, the more red flags appear.
I’m currently up to ten…
He knew my name before I knew his, he sparked instant fear in a security guard with just once glance, and he knew where I really worked.
When I applied to work at his estate, I hadn’t yet added my job at Crafts & Notes to my resume. There’s no way he should’ve known that, and no way I qualified for any job—let alone one under him—with the ugly and sparse draft that I submitted.
“I tend to research and follow up on the things I like…”
The bell over the front door suddenly rings, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I check my reflection in a mirror one more time.
I return to the counter as the sound of his shoes near and I suck in a slow breath as he approaches.
He rounds the corner and…
It’s not him.
Not even close.
It’s a grey-haired man who is wearing a pinstriped suit.
“Welcome to Crafts & Notes.” I try not to sound disappointed. “How may I help you today?”
“I have a pickup for my employer.” He pulls a card from his pocket and sets it on the counter.
It’s the same card I’ve received several times before.
Thank you.
—E.R.
He doesn’t wait for me to hand him the case. Instead, he walks behind the counter, over to the ‘repaired’ shelf, and checks for the violin.
Then he says, “My employer says thank you,” before carrying it away.
“Hey. Wait a minute,” I call after him, but he doesn’t stop. “Excuse me, sir?”
He ignores me, pushing the front door open.
“I’m trying to talk to you,” I say. “I know you can hear me.”
He stops under the awning and lets up an umbrella. Then he slowly turns around to face me.
“Yes?” he asks. “Did I leave something in your store?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I wanted to ask a few things about your employer, Mr. Rochester.”
He gives me a blank stare.
“I’m debating on showing up for an interview at his estate in a couple days, and I was just wondering if you could give me some insight on what he’s like.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but he says nothing.
“Is he a good boss?” I ask. “Does it pay well?”
He opens his mouth as if he’s finally going to answer, but no words ever come.
“I won’t tell him anything. I’m just curious.” I step a little closer and lower my voice. “Can you at least tell me if you enjoy working there?”
“My employer says thank you,” he repeats the same sentence he gave me inside. Then he walks into the rain without another word.
He slips behind the wheel of a sleek black town car and speeds away.
It’s another red flag, Autumn.
Number eleven…
End of Episode 8
Episode 9
Autumn
Later that afternoon
I’m standing in the visitor’s bathroom of Riviera’s Dog Training, wearing a name tag that reads “Potential Puppy Pal.”
The gaudy yellow paper stands out against my bright blue dress, and I regret not wearing a more professional looking suit.
Unfortunately, I left all of those in my old closet with Nate.
Since my interview isn’t due to begin for another half hour, I pull out my second cell phone and look over today’s “Finish Nate’s Ass” Checklist.
Odette’s.
Mom.
Mistress
I type in the number for Odette’s and suck in a deep breath.
It rings once.
It rings twice.
“Thank you for calling Odette’s,” a gruff voice answers. “How may I assist you this morning?”
“My name is Samantha Hart, and I’m with the county liquor board,” I say, following a script I’ve written ten times. “A few weeks ago, someone on your staff served an underage woman alcohol at your masquerade ball.”
“Miss Hart, like we’ve discussed numerous times before, our guest lists are all verified weeks in advance. So, I can assure you—and the board—that an incident like that didn’t happen here.”
“I can assure you it did.” I keep my voice as firm as the real Miss Hart’s is on YouTube. “One of your party guests lied about the age of the woman he brought in, but I know it’s no fault of yours.”
Silence.
“I see.” He pauses. “Is there a hush-fee that you’re about to ask us to pay, Miss Hart?”
“No, I want to give you the name of this guest and let you know that some of the board want to yank your liquor license over this. I’m the one being lenient.”
“What’s the name?”
“Nathaniel Taylor.”
“Address?”
“11038 Willow Wood Drive,” I say. “The guest he brought in wasn’t his wife like it should’ve been. She was someone who is definitely under twenty-one.”