Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I laugh at the surprised irritation on her face. “Whaaaaat? Is it possible there is crucial information that Kate Henley wasn’t the first to know?”
As assistant to not one but three top Wolfe guys, Kate’s one of those people who’s always one step ahead of everyone.
Everyone except Lara, apparently.
“It’s my job to know stuff,” Kate says primly. “And you’re no slouch in the reconnaissance department, either.”
I clink my glass to hers. “Too true. Because knowing stuff is also my job.”
Not in the same way, of course. The type of information Kate gathers is information she’ll need to keep Kennedy, Matt, and Ian out of trouble and doing their job. The information I deal in is the kind you lock in safety deposit boxes while making a half dozen thumb-drive backups.
“Hey, knowing stuff is my job, too!” Lara chimes in. “Do you think that’s why we’ve all become friends?”
“No,” Kate says pragmatically, resuming her cutting. “Because you entered our circle thinking that Ian was guilty of insider trading. That went well.”
Lara points her spoon at Kate in warning. “My job was to investigate if he was guilty.”
“Old news. I demand a subject change,” I command, going back to my barstool perch.
“Oh, FBI Lady over there knows I’ve long forgiven her,” Kate says, blowing Lara a kiss. “I mean if Ian can sleep with the woman who almost put him in jail, I can have dinner with her.”
Lara rolls her eyes but smiles as she sets her wooden spoon aside. “Okay, active prep’s done. The sauce just needs to simmer for a while.”
“What are we having?” Kate asks.
“Sautéed chicken breast with some sort of mushroom sauce,” Lara says, waving at a cookbook. “My mother swears it’s foolproof, and since she’s not exactly Martha Stewart, I trust her.”
“Lucky,” Kate says, shoving a piece of bread in her mouth. “My mom makes Julia Child look like a slacker. Homemade everything. I thought she was going to disown me when she learned I didn’t make my own chicken stock.”
Lara glances at me over the top of her wineglass and opens her mouth, then shuts it again and looks away.
I swallow, because I know she was about to include me in the mom conversation but thought better of it. I’m not sure what Ian’s told her about my history, but none of it would be good. And though my first instinct is to stay silent, to keep that shit locked in the vault, I find a rare urge to share.
To let someone in just a tiny bit.
I take a sip of my wine for courage. “My mom once handed me a ten-dollar bill and told me it was food money for my two half brothers and me. I thought she meant while she went out that night. She came back four days later.”
Kate and Lara both stare at me for a moment, then Kate shakes her head. “Damn. You win.”
I let out a relieved laugh that I don’t have to deflect any pity, just good old-fashioned that-sucks sentiment. Because it had sucked. “I totally win.”
“Did she ever get her act together?” Lara asks, leaning on the counter as Kate checks her dip in the oven.
I shrug as a way of evading. “I left when I was nineteen, as soon as my half brothers were under custody of relatives on their father’s side. The few times that we talk on the phone, she invariably hangs up on me.”
Lara’s blue eyes flash in anger. “Her loss.”
I look down at my wine, then back at Kate. “Is it hot yet?”
“Nearly,” Kate says, shoving the rack back in the oven. “How about we go to the living room and hear Lara’s news?”
I know what she’s doing, and I give her a grateful look. It was hard enough to even mention my mom. I definitely don’t want to get into a big old thing about it.
Kate gives a quick nod in acknowledgment, her dark-brown eyes conveying understanding.
Kate and I are just about as different as can be. My eyes are blue to her brown. I’m five seven; she’s five one. We’ve both got brown hair, but she wears hers in a blunt shoulder-length cut, frequently pushed back with a slim headband. Mine is halfway down my back, and its tousled style requires thirty minutes with two different-sized curling irons every morning.
She had a modest, conservative upbringing in southern New Jersey with a kindergarten-teacher mom and a mathematician dad. I grew up in Philly’s worst neighborhood with a mother who most of the time was so drunk she didn’t even remember she was a mother. She was certainly never a mom. My father? Dead of an overdose before my first birthday.
The rest of my mom’s men were hardly the “father figure” variety. I learned that the first time one of her boyfriends bought me a bikini from Kmart in January and suggested I try it on for him. I’d said no, and my mom had screamed at me. I was thirteen.