Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Lock the door, Eddie.”
I jumped at the sound of his command. Then I jumped to obey it.
Twisting the deadbolt in place, then engaging the chain.
I pressed my ear to the door to listen for his steps as he hopefully walked away. Instead I heard him on the phone.
“Get me Captain Raydar. This is District Attorney Astrid, badge number 75324. I need two uniform cars at…”
His voice receded as he walked down the hall.
I collapsed against the door.
It had to be all in my head. There was no way a man like him, brilliant, handsome, driven, and rich beyond any reason, would want me. There was simply no way a man like that viewed me as anything more than someone to do his busy work.
Men like him required women who were more than just women. They were investments. A woman on his arm would need to be able to help his career. She would need to know the right people, how to make small talk, and make connections that would serve him. She would have to be stunning and properly dressed for all occasions and give him heirs as beautiful and brilliant as he was. She would have to come with her own trust fund and a name that would open doors.
I came with an inferiority complex and a garbage bag full of Goodwill clothes. The most I could offer Harrison Astrid was filing his paperwork. He didn’t want me. He needed more than I could ever offer.
I closed my eyes and gave myself the reality check I needed.
He and I were not attracted to one another.
We weren’t. We couldn’t be, we were barely the same species.
This began as just a case of mistaken identity, when he thought I was a prostitute who’d visited the wrong offices late at night.
He hadn’t known I was his paralegal the first time we met.
The second time we interacted… was just a fluke.
It had to be.
He thought I was offering, which I was not. My body only responded the way it did because it had been so long since I had been with someone that I was touch-starved.
That was it. It was all just a misunderstanding that was aided by the need for human contact. It was a product of inconvenient chemicals and bad timing. Hormones and circumstance were not something worth risking my career over.
A loud knock came from the door behind me. I prayed it wasn’t him. It was so difficult to maintain my professionalism. I didn’t know if I could do it again.
CHAPTER 11
EDDIE
I opened the door expecting to see the still impeccably pressed suit. Instead, there stood a short girl wearing pajama bottoms with pink cacti printed all over them and a large black hoodie with the word “beg” printed across the chest.
“Girl, why are you getting home so late, and who was the sex on a stick that just walked you to your door?”
“Get in here.” I laughed, making room for Sabrina, my best friend who lived across the hallway. “That was my boss, the DA, and he is not sex on a stick.”
“Oh my God, please tell me you are hitting that!” She walked into my studio with our girl dinner under her arm. Three packets of chicken-flavored ramen noodles, half a bag of a discount store brand frozen vegetable medley, and a bottle of two-buck chuck. “I need protein. Do you have any?”
“There are a few eggs in the fridge.”
“You know you don’t actually have to keep eggs in the fridge. They are fine on the counter. Eggs in the fridge is such an American thing.”
Sabrina was a sous chef at some fancy French restaurant. Which meant she prepared food all day she couldn’t afford to eat and worshiped at the altar of the head chef, some asshole with a name I didn’t bother remembering, who belittled her talent as “too Americanized to be anything of substance.”
“It doesn’t matter. The fridge stopped working, so now it’s just an insulated pantry,” I tossed over my shoulder.
“You should call the super about that.” She followed me to the little kitchenette that barely had more than a hot plate on top of one cupboard, a sink, and a broken mini fridge.
I turned to look at her as I pulled out the only pot I owned, and we both started laughing.
“I’ll get right on that,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye. “Did you just get in, too?”
“I did. Chef Jean made us all stay a little late tonight for a VIP table. It was ridiculous. Don’t those entitled, wealthy assholes know that when they keep a restaurant open just to finish a glass of wine, the entire kitchen is stuck there just in case they want something else? We didn’t even get overtime, and they stiffed the waitress, saying her attitude wasn’t worthy of any tip that didn’t involve finishing school. The poor girl was in tears. She worked her ass off for them.”