Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
For a second, I thought about asking him if he wanted to come with me.
But just as quickly, I shut that idea down. He’d only been doing his job tonight. He didn’t really care about me. He was holding the door open for me to leave, wasn’t he?
He was holding the door open for me to leave because he probably thought I was a silly, spoiled debutante who couldn’t do anything for myself—a girl who owned a ball gown but not a couch, who fainted on sidewalks, talked too much, and wasn’t even sure what year her car was, let alone what it would cost to fix it. I couldn’t tell him I was scared and had nowhere to go. I wanted him to think I was brave. Resourceful. Adventuresome. All the things I planned to become in my new life.
Besides, I wasn’t his problem, and he’d done enough.
He was holding the door open for me to leave, and there was nothing left for me to do but walk through it.
Three
Griffin
I watched her walk down the sidewalk in the dark, carrying her suitcase and wearing that ridiculous white dress. She almost looked like a ghost.
When she was completely out of sight, I locked the door, turned off the lights, and headed up the stairs to my apartment.
It was strange how bad I felt letting her wander off alone—I had to remind myself she was a grown woman, she’d refused my offer of a ride, and “crime” in this town was generally confined to kids with toilet paper and too much time on their hands.
Still, I hoped she would be okay. She didn’t strike me as helpless, exactly—she was obviously intelligent and probably always landed on her feet, but I definitely got the sense that she lacked some basic street smarts. The fact that she spoke perfect French wasn’t really going to help her in her post-debutante life. But I didn’t blame her for wanting to escape her family, especially if they really expected her to marry someone for his money. It sounded like a soap opera to me.
Then again, I thought as I tossed my dirty clothes in a laundry basket, I didn’t know that many super rich people. Maybe that was normal in their world. I mean, her middle name was Peacock, for Christ’s sake. I’d seen it on her license and nearly laughed out loud, but I hadn’t wanted to make her feel any worse. Hopefully, I could get her car fixed up and send her on her way without too much hassle.
Problem was, it wasn’t just a blown tire. The fluid I’d seen leaking onto the sidewalk earlier told me the MG’s hard brake line had probably rusted through. And getting parts for a 1971 MG wasn’t going to be quick or cheap. But I’d do the best I could for her.
I jumped into the shower and rinsed off the day’s grime and grit, wondering if she’d made it to the diner and who’s ear she was talking off there. It made me smile.
The girl had gumption, as my mother would say.
I admired what she was doing. It took guts to leave behind what you knew and start over somewhere else. I liked that she wanted to start her own business and was willing to work for it. And damn, she was beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. I mean, she was a little bit crazy, and she talked way too much, but those big green eyes? Those full lips? That curvy little body? I kept thinking about what she felt like in my arms . . . and wishing it could have happened some other time, some other way.
A way that involved being naked in the dark, where I’d shock her sweet little rich girl sensibilities with my filthy mouth, my rough hands, and my big, hard—
I stopped myself before my thoughts went any further, turning off the shower before my hand wandered to my dick.
There was no point in fantasizing about it. Blair Peacock Beaufort did not look like the type of woman who’d be interested in one night of hot, dirty sex with her mechanic. Or with anyone, for that matter. She was undoubtedly pure vanilla between the sheets. She’d probably insist on wearing the white gloves to bed. Maybe even the tiara.
Then again, that might be kind of fun.
I woke up with a start—I’d heard something.
I lifted my head off the pillow in the dark and stayed completely still, my ears pricked up. At first, I heard nothing but crickets. I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand—it was just after midnight.
Then, through my bedroom window screen, I heard the sound again—it sounded like someone was opening and closing car doors in the lot. A drunk looking for spare change? Teenagers causing trouble in the dark? A thief attempting to make off with a client’s vehicle?