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)
Goddamn.
She keeps rendering me speechless.
This time, I want to deflect, but I can’t.
I can’t when I noticed her from the second she sat next to me on the plane.
I noticed her brightness. I noticed her paleness. I noticed how bravely she tried to hide the pain she was in.
I noticed how even when I was at my most off putting, she still smiled at me like nothing could ever dim her.
I noticed how restlessly she slept, with pain making cruel lines on her delicate face.
I noticed how shaky she was standing up.
I was already watching her even before she started passing out.
That was how I reached her to catch her so quickly, before she could hit the floor.
I just didn’t want to admit it—and I refused to face it until now.
From the moment I met Elle Lark, I’ve been trying to protect her like she’s the most fragile thing I’ve ever seen.
It’s more than just general courtesy toward a stranger. More than simply doing what’s right.
I think that light inside Elle is stronger than I’ll ever be.
Every time she’s near me, I can’t rip my eyes off her.
And it’s like she knows.
She looks past me toward the bar, giving me an escape as she smiles.
“Don’t look now,” she says teasingly, “but we’re being watched.”
I don’t know if that’s good news, even if the entire point of being here is to be seen. Still, I try not to be obvious about glancing over my shoulder, just to see what tabloid jackoff is ogling us with zero discretion.
Only to come two seconds short of scrambling under the table to hide.
“Shit,” I snap.
That’s Marissa Sullivan sitting at the bar.
It’s easy to recognize her. At one point she was a model, and she used her looks as the face of her publishing brand to attract people in a rather business-savvy, Instagrammable move.
Dark hair, pale skin, and a refined face with a catlike—and catty—look. She’s overdressed for the lounge in a sparkling deep-red floor-length evening dress.
She’s nursing a highball and staring over her shoulder at us.
I sink down in my seat, trying to get my head below the level of the seat back, and search for a menu to hide behind—but the damn waiter already took them.
Damn. Shit. Fuck.
I casually run my hand through my hair, forming a shade with my hand.
“What?” Elle blinks, cocking her head, then gasps. “Oh my God, is that like your ex or something?”
“Worse. That’s the woman who’s suing us,” I bite off.
Elle’s eyes widen.
She glances past me, then back at me, lifting her brows. “August?”
“What?”
“You’re too big to hide behind your hand. She already saw us.” Her gaze flicks past me. “Aaand she’s coming.”
Shit, shit, shit.
I let out a few more curses under my breath, then drop my hand and straighten up.
When I glance back, Marissa has slid off her barstool. She saunters toward us with a sway that looks risky on her spike heels, her top nearly falling out of her dress.
The ball of ice in her highball clinks loudly as her hand wavers with the glass, sending the golden brown liquid inside sloshing back and forth.
Every time I’ve had direct contact with this woman, she’s been piss drunk.
Considering how her father died, that almost concerns me.
It would, if she weren’t trying to blow our lives to smithereens.
I try to let my concern outshine my irritation, if only so I won’t tear her head off the moment she opens her mouth.
Which she does the instant she stops next to our table, looking down at us with a triumphant smirk. “Well, well, if it ishn’t—isn’t Augusht Marshall. You stalking me, big boy?”
My upper lip curls in disgust. “I’d ask you the same. It’s an odd coincidence that you happen to be here the night we decide to eat out.”
“My offersh—office—is two blocksh away. I wanted a drink after work.” One of Marissa’s heavily kohled eyes squints as she peels a finger away from her glass and points it at me. “Yer stressin’ me out, man.”
“I’m not the one filing a frivolous lawsuit,” I say tightly. “You’re free to withdraw your attack anytime, if it causes you such discomfort.”
“What? Fuck no! Imma . . . Imma wring you dry.” There’s a lascivious curl to those words that makes me shudder. Then she turns on Elle, squinting at her with a sneer. “So you the new dish?”
“Um.” Elle just gawks at her for a few moments, but her characteristic sweetness is there. She just looks curious and pleasant. No judgment, perhaps a little concern. “Not sure about ‘dish,’ but my name’s Elle Lark.” She holds out her hand. “Marissa, right?”
Marissa eyes Elle’s hand with clear disgust. “I don’ wanna shake yer hand. Yer the enema.” Then she blinks and laughs obnoxiously, her nasty tone turning girlish instantly as she covers her mouth. “En-e-mee.”