Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
He’s seated on the fireplace hearth. Basking in the warmth. But he notices the incoming line of bodies.
I watch this twenty-seven-year-old ex-collegiate swimmer, current exec producer, stand off the hearth. He’s offering the warmth to us.
I start to walk towards the foyer and pass Jack, and there’s zero percent chance I’m not saying something. “Where are you going, Long Beach?”
The smile in his honey-brown eyes, the one I imagined, lifts to my gaze.
I add fast, “You move one muscle from that fire, you’re going to turn into an icicle.” I flash him a grin. “I already see your weak California blood crystalizing as I speak.”
His smile grows as he lowers back to the hearth. Almost imperceptibly, his eyes do a one-two dart down my build.
Is he checking me out?
“Not all of us have warm sweatshirts like you,” he says brightly, smoothly.
So he’s just checking out my clothes then?
Jack openly gives me a once-over.
My blood warms like I’m next to him. Seated by the fire, and I grin more as he says, “You willing to part with it?”
He wants my sweatshirt?
At this exact moment in my life, stuck in this house, I don’t care if he thinks he’s flirting or if he believes he’s not flirting or if we’re on some strange flirt-loop.
I’m loving the distraction.
The exuberance.
The grins.
Without hesitation, I pull off my Yale sweatshirt and lightly chuck the clothing to Jack.
“You sure?” Jack asks, already two-seconds from pulling his arms through the holes.
“For sure.” I’ve never been more sure about anything right now. “It’s already in your hands, Long Beach,” I say with a laugh, especially as he wastes no time to claim my sweatshirt as his, pulling the fabric over his head.
In a single beat, a wave of dread crashes into me.
Does the sweatshirt stink?
No.
No.
“Soft.” Jack grins, fixing the collar. “I can see why you wear it all the time.”
“It smells better than it feels too,” I throw out.
Jack reels in my line and sniffs the collar.
My ass is sweating bullets, and I know it’s not just because I’ve walked a little closer to the fire. To him. “Like fresh flowers.”
“More like oak,” Jack says, eyeing me up and down again. “Some type of strong hardwood.”
I laugh into a bigger grin. “Hickory. Walnut—”
“Can you smell it from that far away?” Jack teases, and I swear he’s a second from patting the hearth beside him. Or at least eyeing the open seat.
Somehow, someway, my hesitating ass loses the opportunity. Because Akara beats me to the spot. He lowers on the fireplace stone.
Not realizing he just cockblocked me from a flirt-fest, my boss shakes off the last remnants of melted snow from his shoulders and asks Jack, “Hey, Kong or Godzilla?”
“Godzilla. No question,” Jack says.
“What? Kong is way better, man.”
And they go off on a light-hearted movie conversation. I back away, not taking the chance to see whether Jack would’ve pulled me into their orbit. Knowing him and his infectious way of making people comfortable and appreciated, I bet he would’ve.
But I yawn. Slept terrible last night. And I should clock in a nap. So I head upstairs. Rest my head on my pillow. Try not to play “what if” in my mind.
What if I stayed?
What if Akara never showed up?
What if I asked to kiss him?
Too complicated. He’s said he’s straight, and to uncomplicate an already complicated situation that we’re all stuck inside, I need to let things be what they are.
I drift off for a while, and I wake up to shouting.
Footsteps clamoring.
Adrenaline jolts me up, and I lose some time fighting with an old doorknob that’s jammed shut.
“Come on.” I rattle the thing.
Finally, it gives way, and I race down the stairs and into the living room. What I find outside of an abandoned boardgame of Clue: a tear-stricken Jane Cobalt, Thatcher Moretti—with his hand firmly planted on his mouth and the other around Jane, Maximoff Hale with his arms crossed and staring at the kitchen, and then my oldest friend.
Farrow Redford Keene, who looks absolutely, motherfucking murderous. I know him well enough to know that someone had to have gone after Maximoff.
Charlie.
It’s the only person that makes sense. But then why is Jane distraught and Thatcher as still as stone?
I’m cemented in gravity, in the weight of this fallout, and I ask my friend, “What the hell happened?”
“Charlie happened.” He combs a hand through his hair.
Maximoff uncrosses his arms and runs a hand across Farrow’s shoulders, but Farrow is already tenderly touching the back of his neck.
Before I ask for more details, Farrow explains, “He exposed the twin switch.”
The bottom of my stomach drops.
Tony and O’Malley are supposed to believe Thatcher is Banks on this trip. We were all in on the ploy.
And Charlie blew it up.
Charlie.
He went after his sister’s boyfriend. He must’ve gone after Maximoff in some way too, and I empathize with them but I can’t help but sympathize with my client. I’m torn between the two.