Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
No more sleeping until sunset. No more losing himself in the arms of strangers, half-drunk and not even caring if they only wanted him because they knew who he was and how much money was riding on his shoulders and just how likely it was they’d get their moment of fame when the next morning saw their faces splashed in the tabloids. Ash smiled bitterly, pressing his lips against the cool rim of the glass.
He practically kept the tabloids in business.
If he shut himself away and refused to do his job, half the publishing industry might grind to a halt. At least last night he’d been too drunk to wake up with company.
Forsythe probably would have flashed his one-night stand’s ass everywhere, too.
Sighing, he finished his orange juice, stole five minutes in a quick shower, and rose to pull on his clothing. One of his old single-breasted suits in deep navy, nearly black, with subtle pinstripes; he didn’t even remember what he’d bought it for, probably one of his father’s fundraisers, but he didn’t recall it fitting this comfortably, as he settled the coat over his button-down…and he distinctly recalled the over-long pants legs catching on his heels all night at the event, his draping suit cuff dipping into food trays as he browsed the refreshments. But the pants legs fell perfectly now, stopping just at the tops of his shoes, and the sleeves ended neatly a precise half-inch above the cuff off his shirt sleeve.
Staring, Ash fingered the hem, then flipped it back over his wrist. The stitching there was definitely new, neat and precise in nearly militant lines. Holy fuck.
Had Forsythe fucking tailored his clothing?
How did the man even know his fit?
And when the fuck had he even…?
He looked quickly over his shoulder, half expecting the man to pop out of nowhere to answer a question he hadn’t even spoken out loud. The pool house was silent, drawers hanging open, everything in disarray. No sign of Forsythe.
But the specter of the man was present, practically breathing down the back of Ashton’s neck.
That man was a demon.
Ash let out an incredulous laugh, tucked his wallet into his pocket, and headed outside and into morning sunshine tinted that watery color that promised autumn was loosening its last hold and the brisk, nippy chill to the air would soon become pure and biting ice. Slipping his hand into his pockets, Ash followed the main walk through the garden and up to the front drive of the sprawling, palatial yet minimalist Mediterranean style mansion in smooth white that threw the sun back in a blinding glare. The red brick of the courtyard was like spilled blood in contrast, while the gleaming Mercedes pulled into the drive was a blot of black ink in the center.
Forsythe stood at attention next to the car, and as Ash rounded the house, Forsythe dipped another of those bows and pulled the backseat door open. Ash eyed him, but sighed and slipped into the backseat. As soon as he was settled, Forsythe closed the door firmly, then rounded the car to the driver’s seat and slid in. Smoothly, he started the Mercedes and pulled it forward, easing out of the courtyard and into the long, winding, tree-shrouded drive that coiled from the Harrington estate toward the main streets of New York. Ash watched the back of Forsythe’s head for a moment, then sighed, looking away, watching the tree-light reflections dappling against the windows.
“Are you driving me because you think you’re my jailer?” he murmured. “Don’t trust me to show up on my own?”
“I am driving you because this, too, is part of a valet’s job,” Forsythe replied crisply. For a moment his eyes, in the reflection in the rear view mirror, flicked to Ash. “Your comfort and safety are my utmost priority. That includes ensuring you are safely conveyed to your destinations.” He shifted flawlessly as the Mercedes eased onto the public streets, the rumble and hum of the finely-tuned vehicle changing around them into a soothing growl. “From this point forward, I will not allow a stranger to be entrusted with your safety. You can either hire a driver I will personally screen, or allow me to drive you.”
Ash arched a brow. “Were you this bossy with Vic’s family?”
“I did not need to be,” Forsythe replied pointedly.
Ash grit his teeth, but let it go.
The annoying part was that the bastard was right.
Silence held, on the drive through New York. Silence was better. Safer. He didn’t know what to say to Forsythe, anyway, and Ash had other things on his mind.
Like the tall, glossy spear of glass and silver thrusting against the New York City skyline, reflective surface painted in the colors of the day and sun-flare blinding off the tall brushed-steel HS emblazoned vertically down the side of the building.