Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“It matters to me!” August roars. “I won’t have her ruining your reputation, besmirching your good name, shitting on everything you built over all the years! Where’s your spine? Where’s your love? Where’s your pride? What happened to the woman who raised me?”
Clara turns a slow, heartbreakingly sad smile on August. “She realized some things are more important than owning an idea.”
I don’t understand.
There’s something weird there, like something haunting her, some terrible secret even deeper than this.
August must realize it too.
He goes silent, slumping back in his chair and staring at her in a silence that stretches on longer and longer, until I can’t take it anymore.
“If you win the case, I had an idea,” I venture slowly. Breaking the silence feels mortifying, especially when they’re still looking at each other and not me. “Maybe to keep Little Key afloat and revive interest in the brand, we could relaunch the pen pal program.”
“Pointless,” August mutters, crushing the idea and my heart as carelessly as he’d pulverize a dazed wasp under his heel. “Children these days text. Send DMs. They don’t write letters by hand.”
“Oh,” I say faintly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. The novelty probably would wear off pretty fast . . .”
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Clara snaps. There’s a thud under the table. August squints one eye and jerks his leg back, wincing.
“Ow!”
“I’ll kick you again if you ever speak to Elle so dismissively again,” Clara bites off, and I flush. “Apologize. And listen to her properly.”
To his credit, August looks a little shamed.
He glances at me, offering his hand. “I apologize. I shouldn’t be taking my temper out on you. We can discuss your idea another time.”
“It’s hereditary,” Clara mutters.
August rolls his eyes, but when I place my hand in his, he gives it a squeeze.
“I’ll think about it, all right? I’ll need to do a little market research. Retro is in. There may be a way to spin it to make the idea viable. It’s a good one. We just need to find an angle and crunch the numbers.”
That we warms me a bit. Making me a part of it, telling me he’s taking it seriously. I squeeze his hand back, but that apology isn’t enough for me.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “You want an angle? I’m going to give you one firsthand.”
He blinks blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Block some time off tomorrow,” I say with a smirk, “and I’ll show you.”
XVIII
STORM OF DESIRE
(AUGUST)
Hell is a real place, and I am in it.
I stand frozen in the doorway of a kindergarten classroom—Elle on one side of me, hot as hell in a red paisley print pair of capris and a sleeveless pink blouse with her hair in a ponytail with a matching paisley scarf, Miss Joly on my other, wearing an almost sadistic smirk.
When Elle said she would show me, I had no idea she meant this.
A room full of screaming kindergarteners, their teacher calling for them to calm down because Miss Joly has brought new friends to see them.
Surprise: they don’t calm down.
They erupt into pure chaos, screeching, The puppy lady! I wanna pet the puppies! Where are the doggos?
They swarm the door.
I immediately duck out of the room, stepping back into the hall and flattening myself against the wall like there’s a raging river bearing down on me.
Snickering, Lena Joly steps through the door to hold back the wave while I stare at Elle with my nostrils flared.
“What is this insanity?” I demand. “Have I mentioned I’m not good with children?”
“Isn’t that part of the problem with Little Key?” Elle smiles.
Miss Joly leans back out the door, giving me a skeptical look. “Dude. How are you bad with kids? You publish children’s books, don’t you?”
“I do no such thing,” I bite off. “I’m the temporary executive of a children’s publisher. I’m focused on business strategy and long-term market planning—not audience engagement. My aunt enjoys those squirming little things. I do not.”
That just makes Elle grin wider, and now I understand why she and Miss Joly get along like bandits.
Because behind that sweet, pretty smile, there’s definitely a sadistic streak.
“You’d better learn faaast,” Elle teases, catching my hand.
She pulls me along after her as she turns to walk into the room.
“Elle—Elle, no—”
Too late.
She marches me right into the gaggle of tiny creatures.
Goddamn, they’re bright. They’re loud.
They’re a churning sea of pastels and ruffles and primary colors, sticky fingers and dirty knees and pigtails and freckles and gap teeth. They swarm me like ants crawling over an apple.
I freeze, holding my hands up to keep from touching any of them.
The teacher claps her hands together.
“All right, guys! Settle down,” she says. “Miss Joly brought her friends today instead of the puppies. Say hello to Mr. Marshall and Miss Lark. They’re going to lead craft time today.”