Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
‘I’ll tell you why.’ He sounds hostile, his eyes wild. ‘Because there’s only one reason you went for dinner with Brent Wilson.’ He comes closer, and I push myself back into the wall some more. ‘To piss me off. You don’t want him. You want me.’
When I should be denying it, I say nothing, strengthening his claim. But he feels it, too. The conflict. What if she’s different?
He wants me, and it’s driving him mad. Making him angry. Frustrated. Why? Because he struggles with affection? Because I’m putting up a fight? Because all he knows is seducing women and having them lick his feet, beg him for it? Because I’m not falling all over myself to please him?
But I don’t voice my questions, which leaves a long, difficult time with no words, just loud breathing.
When I can’t watch Becker Hunt shaking with rage before me any longer, and my brain is tired out from trying to evaluate this situation, I push him away, peel my back from the wall, and start to walk away from him on shaky legs.
‘Yes, go home,’ he shouts after me, his words laced with fake conviction. I can hear his voice trembling. He’s not fooling me, but I ignore his apparent uncertainty and keep up my pace. ‘And don’t be late for work.’
I clench my eyes closed, determined not to cave and retaliate. I need to stock up on self-control, locate the willpower I need to keep strong, whether his goading is weirdly playful, or deadly serious. Right now, he’s deadly serious. I don’t like either, but I’m missing the roguish, arsehole Becker, and I never dreamed I’d think that. The guy behind me seems unhinged. It’s like he’s winding me in, tempting me, and then pushing me away when I get too close. I can’t fathom him at all. He’s mercurial, not a maverick.
Never in my life has my mobile ringtone been such a delight to hear. I don’t care who it is, but their timing is impeccable. I grab it and connect the call. ‘Hello.’ My greeting is clearly strained as I continue marching on my way.
‘Eleanor?’
The familiar voice brings my dogged marching to a halt. ‘Brent?’ I only manage a surprised wheeze of his name.
‘Are you okay?’ He sounds genuinely concerned, but then I remember the game. ‘Where are you?’
‘On my way home.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes, on my own.’ And it’s going to stay that way. ‘Just grabbing a cab.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. Stay where you are. I’ll come and get you.’
‘No, Brent,’ I argue quickly. The last thing I need is Brent adding another dimension to this spiky mix. ‘I can get myself—’ I don’t get to finish. Because my hand is suddenly missing my phone. ‘What the hell?’ I shout, turning fast and coming face to face with Becker. He doesn’t look any less pissed off, which only serves to heighten my own anger. ‘What are you doing?’ I make a grab for my phone, missing by a mile when he dodges my swiping hand. ‘Give me my fucking phone, Becker.’
‘Dream on, princess,’ he snipes, cutting the call with the filthiest look on his face.
‘Don’t call me princess.’
He scoffs and lifts his arm high, a threatening look on his face. His intentions are clear.
‘Don’t you dare.’
Oh, he dares. His lip curls and his arm comes down fast, releasing my phone and slamming it into the ground. It smashes to smithereens, and pieces of my dead mobile dance around at my feet. What the fuck? But as if he isn’t happy enough that he’s destroyed my phone, he starts kicking the pieces all over the place, shouting and grunting as he does.
I watch with wide eyes and my mouth sealed firmly closed while Becker has a physical punch-up with my helpless mobile phone. Fuck. How am I meant to survive without my phone? In bloody London. Is it Becker Hunt’s ambition to completely ruin my life?
I’m not sure how long I stand staring at the scattered pieces – maybe a minute, maybe ten – but when he seems to be done and is puffing and panting from his exertion, I bring my eyes up to confront him. His handsome face is contorted with rage, though I detect a slight wrinkle of his brow, indicating confusion. He’s shocked by his actions, too.
‘Why did you even give me the job?’ I ask.
‘I was enjoying the foreplay,’ he growls without hesitation.
I’m speechless.
Almost.
‘I quit,’ I scream, kicking away a chunk of plastic near my feet before pivoting on my heels and storming off.
‘Good,’ Becker yells, the word punching into my back like a boulder. My poor mind is rampant with anger, too many emotions stirring, and before I can stop myself, I swing around to attack him with some home truths and hateful words. I’ve got nothing to lose now. As far as I’m concerned, he isn’t my employer any more. I just quit.