Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
She starts ticking off on her fingers, starting with the thumb.
“Gets all hot and bothered when you wear peek-a-boo dresses…insists on driving you to your gig because he doesn’t want other men seeing you in your sexy outfit…stays and acts as bodyguard–or” –she uses a new finger even though it’s an or not an and– “stays because he wants to see how amazing you are as an 80’s girl-band-member, and finally” –she moves onto the other hand– “Takes your guitar with him so you can stay and have a good time.” She finishes with an I rest my case face. “That’s hot.”
Tingles race across my skin–a flush of recognition at what she’s saying.
I roll through all the rude things he does. How poor Indira was terrified of him. How quick he is to make unreasonable demands and berate all manner of small mistakes.
Aw, hell. Aubrey’s right. That just makes it hotter that he might be soft on me.
“Okay, but it doesn’t make him redeemable as a human being. I mean, I would never date him.”
“Well, it is complicated because he’s your boss,” Aubrey concedes.
“Even if I weren’t his executive assistant, he wouldn’t date someone like me.”
Aubrey’s broad smile fades. “What do you mean, someone like you?” She’s offended by my description on my behalf.
“Rich guy? Full scholarship girl? I already know how this one ends. Same way my mom’s relationship with my dad did.”
Aubrey shrugs. “Well don’t get pregnant. And don’t fall in love. But otherwise? I say, go for it. It’ll make you un-fireable. And you can put it in your memoir. Fucking the One Percent: the Madi Evans story.”
I let out a reluctant laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy fo-or you,” she sings in a Madonna voice.
I add the back up vocals, “Bah, bah, bah, bah,” and we laugh together.
The doorbell rings, and we both shriek.
“Special delivery for Madison Evans.”
“Don’t answer,” Aubrey whispers. “It might be a serial killer.”
“Stop it,” I whisper back before telling the delivery person I’ll be right down. It’s weird to get a late night delivery, so I am extra cautious. A young man in a neat navy uniform greets me on the stoop, holding my guitar and a dry cleaning bag. Did Blackthroat get my coat dry cleaned?
I thank the delivery man and head back inside.
“I finished the ice cream,” Aubrey says. “What do you want for our actual dinner?” She sees what I’m holding and wrinkles her nose. “Did your boss just drop that off?”
“He had it dropped off.” I unzip the dry cleaning bag to remove my coat and immediately realize that it’s not mine. It’s the same cream color, but this one is real wool, with peplum tailoring and sleek gold buttons.
I check the label. Chanel.
I stare at it, trying to comprehend what the gift means. Part of me wants to take offense–this rich asshole thought my jacket was a throwaway that he needed to replace? But that’s just my pride talking. No, this gift was thoughtful. Something Brick Blackthroat pretends not to be.
Shivers of excitement run across my arms and down my legs.
“I told you he was into you,” Aubrey calls. She’s rummaging around in the fridge. She hasn’t realized my boss sent me a whole new coat.
“Yeah.” I head to my room to hang it up before Aubrey sees. If I tell her, we’ll both speculate on why Blackthroat sent me this gift. If I keep it a secret, it won’t matter why. I can savor this moment for what it is.
In the dark of my closet, the cream wool seems to glow. The wool is luxe. The lining is real silk. I allow myself one more lingering touch before closing the closet doors.
Chapter Thirteen
Madi
Friday, I duck out for a quick lunch–in my new coat–when a new appointment pops up on my schedule. Fitting, Zoe’s Couture with an address on 5th Avenue. Am I supposed to drop by to pick something up for Blackthroat? I head to the address just in case, texting Indira in case she knows what it’s about.
No idea, she texts back.
Weird, but the only person who can add things to my calendar is Blackthroat, and what the boss wants, the boss gets.
That’s how I find myself ringing the bell at a discreet door tucked between a spa and a jewelry store. There’s no shop name on the door, just a number and a brass sign announcing ‘By Appointment only.’ The man who opens it is slender, his purple hair power clashing with his red velvet suit. My eyebrows climb into my hairline, but he says, “Madison Evans?” and waves me to follow him. “Right this way.”
This must be a fashion stylist’s private boutique. I’m probably here to pick up Blackthroat’s outfit for the ball tonight. I can’t see him wearing a velvet suit, but maybe his nighttime attire is less conservative.