Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
She chuckled, and the sound was anything but jovial. Instead, it scraped long, dead fingernails down my spine, reducing me, in one squeeze of her vocal chords to a misbehaving child. "Oh, how easy it is for a child of wealth to take the moral high ground. I imagine, if you’d had to work a single day in your life, that you would react differently. If it were your money that built this house and purchased your ocean-front view, you’d be taking my check and thanking me for it.”
She was probably right, but that didn’t mean I was going to let her stand here and lecture me. She wanted to buy my distance, and I didn’t want to give it. I tore the check into two and let the two halves float to the counter.
“Fine.” She shrugged. “You don't want my money? What about HYA?"
My fingers tightened on the counter, and everything changed between us with that question. She wouldn't. She couldn't. "What about it?"
"Last year BSX donated..." She moved her gaze around the kitchen, as if there was complex math being done in some corner of her mind.
"Seven and a half million dollars." I found my voice—it moved out of my throat without invitation. She wouldn't.
"Seven point six," she corrected me, her voice hard. "I head our charitable contributions team, along with twelve other departments at BSX. Step away from him, or I'll pull this year's donation."
My world grew a little smaller. Donations were due next month. We were asking BSX for eight million, which would, in addition to normal expenditures, pay off the existing debt on three new homes we put under construction during the last year. Without that donation, the organization would have to cover both mortgages for a full year. An impossible task. And, honestly, with my poor fundraising skills ... I couldn't make up that deficit. No way. I could barely raise the outside three hundred grand I had recruited last year.
I swallowed and stared at this evil woman who suddenly held a full house in her deck. A full house of homeless kids. "Get the fuck out of my house."
And just like that, my relationship with Jillian began.
Chapter 6
I didn't react well when being told what to do. I was also selfish. Both of those arrows pointed in the direction of calling Brant and planting myself front and center in his life in any way I could.
But I couldn't ignore the kids. The ones I spent my Tuesdays and Thursdays with, the one break from my superficial life, the one peek I got into a difficult existence that HYA brightened in so many important ways. Jillian was right about one thing. There were no emotions attached at this point, no reason why I couldn't just walk away from Brant. Walk away and allow thousands of children to have a little brightness in their lives this year. Would I take that away from them just to spite Jillian Sharp?
Yeah. Probably. I never claimed to be a saint. Manipulation should never win. Plus, I should never lose. My new mantra was to do as I wished, not as society expected or wanted. On that note, I was almost obligated to give her the proverbial middle finger.
I dumped a liberal amount of Kahlua in my coffee, sat down on my sofa, and stewed over the decision. Stewed over why Jillian was so dead set against a possibility that hadn't even become a possibility yet. Was it me? Some hatred of a stranger she'd never met? Or was it any woman who might interrupt the flow of Brant's life? How many kitchens had she stood in? How many checks had she written, foes had she faced?
Two hours later, I was slumped low on the couch, the pillow imprinting expensive designs in the side of my face, when my phone rang. I jerked to life and up to my feet, trying to regain my bearings. My ringtone sounded again, and I stumbled toward the kitchen and found the cell on the counter beside the bottle of Kahlua.
BRANT displayed on the screen. I silenced it, stumbled back to the couch, and collapsed facedown.
Think of the children.
My second nap was ended by my hunger, which punched incessantly through my alcohol-induced slumber. I made it through half of the steps involved in a chicken salad sandwich before I was reminded of Brant's missed call. I picked up my phone with mayonnaise-covered fingers and opened my voicemail.
I had one new message, received at 3:07 PM.
"Layana. This is Brant Sharp. I enjoyed last night - sorry to leave without saying goodbye. I'd like to take you to dinner tonight to make up for it. Let me know if you're free."
I tossed down the cell and finished fixing my sandwich. I stood at the counter and ate it, a frown pinching my features.