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)
“Asleep? Very funny—oh, you’re serious? How can you sleep when you’re—” She pulls back, and her eyes search mine frantically, her freckled nose wrinkled. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?” I throw my hands up. “Lena, I have a bajillion notifications. I haven’t been able to look at them yet, and now you’re here talking like the Mafia might have murdered me or something.”
“Girl, I don’t know. I thought the ‘billionaire pick-me’ fan club might have kidnapped you.” Then, like she didn’t just say the most outlandish thing in the world, Lena leans around me and smiles brightly, wiggling her fingers in a little wave. “Morning, Miss Jacqueline.”
Gran’s crutch thuds closer.
“Good morning, Lena,” she says warmly, completely indifferent to Lena’s ranting. “Have you had breakfast?”
“I have, ma’am, but I always have room for your lemon poppyseed muffins, if you’re offering.”
Grandma cackles. “You know my baking habits too well.”
“I could smell them coming up the walk.”
I just take in this exchange like I’m watching a Ping-Pong match before I clear my throat.
“Guys, are we talking about breakfast or talking about why apparently there’s some kind of crisis? What billionaire? Am I getting dragged on social media? Did someone leak my nudes to Elon Musk?”
Lena pauses. “. . . you have nudes to leak?”
Grandma blinks. “You have nudes to leak, and they’re accessible in the cloud?”
I bat my eyes right back at her. “You know about the cloud?”
“Young lady, how old do you think I am?” Grandma clucks her tongue and thumps her cane emphatically. “Please lock down your phone. At least have a little common sense if you’re sharing a little spice.”
“I don’t have nudes!” I hiss. Groaning, I drag a hand over my face. “Could someone please just explain what’s going on?”
“Perhaps,” a silky-dark voice interrupts from behind Lena, “I could be of assistance.”
Oh, crud.
That voice isn’t so comforting this time.
That voice darts through me like I’ve just grabbed an electrified fence.
Lena and I both go stiff, while Gran only looks mildly amused.
I stare past Lena in absolute horror at the man standing on the last stone before the front steps.
He’s just as impeccable as he was two days ago, even if he looks a bit more casual and relaxed.
His slacks today are still black, his shoes perfectly polished, his waistcoat a dark silvery slate grey, and he’s not wearing a tie this time.
His starched white dress shirt has precisely one button unfastened at the neck, exposing his Adam’s apple and the corded tendons in his throat.
Also, he’s carrying something under his arm. What looks like several stacks of newspapers folded with splashy cover pages just barely visible.
There’s also something in one of his angular, graceful hands.
A little grey velvet box.
I have no earthly idea what’s going on. No clue how he’s involved in this or what he’s doing here.
Oh, and I still don’t know his freaking name.
But I can’t stop the small squeak that spills out, turning into a strangled mumble.
“Jet Daddy,” I say instinctively.
“Jet who?” he snaps, his eyes widening, before he scowls. “Miss Lark, that’s not my name.”
Lena looks over her shoulder and echoes my squeak.
“Holy shit, it’s you!” She stares at him, going so pale she could give me a run for my money.
This is just getting weirder and weirder.
“You know him?” I demand.
“I know of him,” Lena strangles out. “You don’t?”
Then Jet Daddy turns his hell-glare on Lena. She recoils, blushing, sudden color painting her face in vivid red as she makes a choking sound.
Gran lets out an aggrieved sigh. “You young people, always making such drama of everything.” She turns away, thumping her crutch definitively toward the kitchen. “Come inside. Let’s not have this conversation on the front stoop like heathens. I’ll make tea. There’s enough muffins for everyone.”
Lena just looks at me incredulously.
“You always fall into the weirdest messes,” she says before she brushes past me to the kitchen—though that doesn’t stop her from catching my hand for a moment and giving it a warm, reassuring squeeze.
That just leaves me standing in the entryway more numb than I’ve ever been in my life.
Jet Daddy stays rooted to the front step, watching me with those penetrating blue eyes.
“Um,” I say. “Is this like a vampire thing? You can’t come in without being invited?”
“You,” he mutters thinly, “have the oddest imagination, Miss Lark. My name is August Marshall.”
I blink at him. “If that’s supposed to mean something, it doesn’t.”
“Don’t know if I find that a relief or—fuck, forget it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time for muffins. I have a full schedule today, and this is an unplanned detour. If we could stop wasting time, I’d like to ask you to marry me.”
“What?” I yelp loudly.
“What?!” Lena echoes from the kitchen.
But August what’s-his-face’s stone-cold expression doesn’t change.
I don’t think he’s joking.