Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“If I could just get a tow truck for my car.”
He sighed dramatically.
“Jesus Christ, you’re a little slow on the uptake, aren’t you? No truck can get here, the road is gone. For that matter, so’s your car. A tree totaled it during the night.”
“What?” Iris felt the blood drain from her head at that bit of news.
“Your rental… it’s toast. Luckily, just the roof and hood, which meant I could get into the trunk to retrieve this pink monstrosity.” He indicated toward her suitcase. But Iris was too preoccupied to take offense at the slight against her beloved neon pink luggage.
“I was going to stay in the car last night, but thought I’d take my chances and walk here instead,” she said, mostly speaking to herself.
“Well then, I guess you cheated death four times last night. First the river, then the car crushing and then the big bad wolf.”
That diverted her train of thought enough to raise her eyes to his pitiless face.
“What was the fourth time?”
His eyes were shards of silver ice and his lips were pressed into a thin line before he said, voice quiet and intense, “Me, sugarplum… The last woman who thought she could manipulate me died, lady. So don’t fuck with me.”
What?
Was he referring to Trish Nesbitt? Iris had meant to ask him about Ms. Nesbitt’s death during the interview. It had been an accident. Why would he imply that he’d had something to do with that?
“You mean Ms. Nesbitt? But that was an accident. Why—”
“No.” That was it, just a single, implacable word. And it effectively shut her up.
“There will be no questions,” he continued after a long pause. “No answers. No fucking interview. You will stay in this room. We will not speak. And when the time comes, you’re to face criminal charges. That’s it. End of.”
He stalked to the door, all big, bristling male, and Iris noticed for the first time that he was wearing a pair of faded jeans paired with a red and black plaid flannel shirt.
She felt a nervous giggle rise up in her throat and clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress it. Too late. A soft, merry little chortle escaped, and he whirled around to pin her with a glare.
“What the fuck is so funny?”
She pressed her lips together and dropped her hand before shaking her head.
“N-nothing.” But the word emerged on another traitorous burble of laughter. God, he looked pissed off. And Iris could have cursed her irreverent sense of humor for choosing this time to surface.
“It’s just the hair”—Oh God, Iris, she begged herself. Shut up!—“and the b-beard and the whole lumberjack ensemble”—Jesus please, strike me mute and spare me from this folly—“You’ve really committed to this crazy hermit shit, haven’t you?”
Gah, too late! Why did she have to have a chronic case of foot-in-mouthitis?
TDH’s face froze, only the slight twitch below his left eye served as proof that he was still alive, as he continued to stare at her with zero expression on his face.
“You’re here only because you’ve forced your way into my house and now somehow, by default, I’ve become responsible for your health and well-being. I’m trying—even though it goes against my own desires—to be a decent human being. But you’re treading a very fine line. And it won’t take much to remind me that I actually have fuck all responsibility toward you and kick you the hell out.”
Iris clamped her lips together and nodded curtly. Right. Point made. No more hot takes from her then.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Thank you for taking me in.”
Jeez, was she really thanking her jailer for imprisoning her right now? Talk about your classic gaslighting job.
His eyes narrowed on her face, as if he were trying to gauge her sincerity.
Apparently, he didn’t like what he saw because he muttered something foul beneath his breath before he shook his head and strode toward the door.
“Please, don’t lock the door.” She directed her plea at his broad back, and he stopped in his tracks, his shoulders tensing.
“You have everything you need in here. There’s no need for you to roam around the house. You stay in here, out of my way, out of my life, and out of my business. Trust me, we’ll both be happier for it.”
“I promise I’ll stay in here, you don’t have to lock the door.”
“If you’ll stay in here anyway, then me locking the door won’t make a difference, will it?” The question was almost silky, despite the gruffness of his stupid lumberjack/Batman voice.
“It will make a difference to me,” she countered, before adding in sheer desperation, “I have cleithrophobia. It’s a fear of being confined.”
“Bullshit. You just made that up.”
With that, he closed the door and Iris remained tense, breath bated until… the key turned in the lock. She swallowed back a sob, and her shoulders sank.