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)
I like that fantasy.
Too bad it can’t be mine.
There’s no room for frivolity in this world. I don’t get to have the administrative assistant. I have to mate an alpha spawn. A she-wolf with a pedigree to keep the bloodline pure. Preferably one fate chooses for me to keep me from moon madness, not that anyone in my family has succumbed to it. The Blackthroat will is too strong, or so my grandmother used to say.
A stir of misgiving has me thinking about Madison again.
But that’s crazy.
Fate would never pick a human for an alpha wolf.
It simply doesn’t happen.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Madi
I wake feeling just as raw emotionally as I was going to sleep. I’m in a strange place in the servants quarters, nursing an enormous rejection hangover and feeling lonely as hell. I shower and put on a pair of warm leggings and a sweater from Ruby then go and knock on the pilot’s door to ask what time we can leave.
“We’re not going anywhere.” John Acker is a tall man, and he towers over me now with a glower that would make a lesser person cringe. “Call your family and let them know you won’t be home for Thanksgiving.”
I blink at him. “The weather is still that bad?” My brain is slow processing information this morning.
“The weather is total shit. I doubt we’ll even get out of here by tomorrow. And yes, I do blame you for ruining my family’s Thanksgiving.”
I wince. I guess I deserve that. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I.” He shuts the door in my face, and I swallow hard.
Dang it.
I go back to my room to call my mom and give her the shitty news. Then I text Aubrey.
She calls me back immediately. “What happened? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say dully. “I just got snowed in, and there’s no way to get out of here during the storm.”
“So you’re snowed in with your sexy billionaire boss?” She infuses her question with all kinds of innuendo.
“I hate him,” I say.
“Wait, what?” Aubrey sobers suddenly, finally catching onto my black mood. “What happened?”
“I went out of my way to make sure he didn’t lose this land deal he’s been working on for months, and he totally yelled at me and then acted like having to put me up for the night was a big problem. He told the housekeeper to put me in the servant’s quarters.”
“What?” she gasps in outrage.
“Okay, maybe it’s not the servant’s quarters, but that is certainly how it feels, and I’m sticking to that narrative.” I wrap my anger around me like a warm scarf to keep from sinking into the self-pity that’s been threatening ever since I arrived.
“Okay, what makes you think it’s the servant’s quarters?” Aubrey asks, putting on her practical voice.
I try to remember what he’d said. When I do, a fresh stab of pain sinks straight between my ribs. “He said I don’t know what you’re going to do here until the weather clears. You can’t join us.”
“Oh shit,” Aubrey says. “That’s cold. He’s an asshole. You should quit.”
Tears burn my eyes. I hold back the sob in my throat. “Yeah, I’m thinking about it.”
“Well, I’m available all day if you just want to stay on the phone with me. I’ll be your Thanksgiving phone date. Okay?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I rub my nose, trying very hard not to completely lose it. “I’ll call you later if I need to, okay?”
“Okay. Hugs. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I hang up. I’m hungry, but I can’t face leaving my room. I don’t like how off my game I am right now. Instead, I prop myself up with pillows on the bed and read a book on my phone’s ereader.
Finally, when it’s nearly eleven and I’m starving, I decide to put my big girl panties on and get some food. The minute I hop off the bed, the door is thrown wide, and I’m assaulted by the sight of a lethally handsome and very pissed-off boss.
Blackthroat holds a small plate with a few assorted pastries and a mug of what smells like my favorite–a vanilla latte. His dark hair looks rumpled like he’s been shoving his fingers through it, and he’s wearing a sweater and khakis, like last night. Unlike last night, I now have a moment to take him in. His casual attire shouldn’t look sexier than his usual suit porn, but somehow he makes it magnificent. He could make a killing as a men’s fashion model with his long legs and broad shoulders coupled with the chiseled jaw.
Except his expression is sour, as if the offering he’s bringing isn’t a thoughtful treat, but the smelliest garbage. He sets them both down on the dresser by the door.
His gaze sweeps across me and around the room.
“Way to knock,” I throw at him like a sulky teenager.