Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Murphy’s was my most favorite bakery ever.
In fact, if I had to choose any place in the entire world to go to, it would be that place.
Only, I was on a diet. One that was regimented, counted out my macros, and meant that I couldn’t just go eating bullshit from Murphy’s every single time I got a hankering.
But damn, that white Murphy’s bag looked tempting.
“I didn’t,” he said as he walked toward the desk. “This was brought over by hunkalicious biker across the street. He said, and I quote, ‘you need something more than a salad’ and then left.”
I blinked at Jayco owlishly.
“What?”
“That’s what he said,” he put the bag onto my desk. “Did you make it through your long run?”
I gritted my teeth.
I wasn’t one for small talk.
Never was. Never would be.
That was why, that night that I’d met Trick, it’d been a freakin’ miracle that I’d talked to him for so long.
With my prickly, standoffish demeanor, my refusal to share anything important relating to me, and my inability to ‘connect,’ I’d always been told that I was hard to get to know. Which, I admitted, was true.
I’d never been popular. Never would be.
“Thanks,” I said as I ignored his earlier comment. “Is there anything else?”
“Your eight o’clock called and said that he’d be late.” Jayco backed out of the room.
“Thanks,” I grumbled, upset now that I hadn’t taken longer in the shower.
The hot water had felt fantastic.
“He’ll be more like eight fifteen,” Jayco said. “And McHottie Biker across the street said that you need some Icy Hot or something. He said to go to the store and get some by tonight, or you’re going to hate yourself in the morning.”
I ignored him and turned on my computer, getting to work while he was still in the room.
And at eight twenty, not eight fifteen, when my eight o’clock walked into my office accompanied by Jayco, I stood and offered him my hand.
“Mr. Windsor,” I said as I looked at the man in his mid-forties. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Lynnwood Windsor, the mayor of Kilgore and my newest client, smiled.
But that smile didn’t reach his eyes.
I didn’t have to see that to know that he was dangerous.
More so, he was staring at me as if he could read my thoughts.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Marrin,” he murmured formally as he gestured to the guest seat. “May I sit?”
I took my seat and nodded. “Go for it.”
His eyes twinkled at my lack of manners or decorum.
Well, I wasn’t going to play a game.
I wasn’t into games.
Games were for people that cared, and I didn’t care.
“How can I help you?” I wonderd.
“Well,” he said, crossing one foot over the opposite knee and then leaning back into his chair. His pants rode up and revealed a bright red pair of socks, which surprised me. Because I wouldn’t have expected something so bright from him. “My fiancée got them for me.”
I shrugged, not bothering to say anything to that.
“Anyway, I wanted to speak to you about being on retainer for me. From legal questions to representation. I’d like to make sure that I always have someone…just in case.” he said quietly.
In case something happened, and he needed a criminal defense attorney. Interesting.
We spoke about specifics. We spoke about my job. Where I was located. Why I moved from my old location. And then we started speaking about my past. Why I’d decided that becoming a lawyer was my calling in life.
I wasn’t even sure how we’d gotten on to the subject, but I found myself saying, “My parents were murdered. My stepfather was a criminal defense attorney, and I wanted to follow in his footsteps.”
In actuality, it was about Trick. How he was treated. How, if the legal system wasn’t so corrupt, things could’ve gone differently for him. But, that was the long answer. I gave him the other, easier, half-answer.
His eyes seemed knowing as he listened to me speak.
And he must’ve heard something that he liked because he nodded his head and then stood up, offering me his hand.
I reached out and took it, surprised by the calluses on his palm.
For a man dressed so well, who spoke so eloquently, and held himself so regally, I guess I expected his hands to be soft.
My stepfather, despite his goodness, had had delicate hands. He was always impeccably dressed, and always, and I do mean always, acted refined. He would’ve never been caught dead with calluses on his hands. White-collar men did not do their own dirty work. And if they did, they did it with a pen, not with their own hands.
Lynn, the sharp-dressed man in front of me, was an enigma.
At least to me, anyway.
“It was nice to meet you,” he smiled. “Have your office bill me for your time.” He then dropped my hand and gestured to the bag on my desk. “I’m sorry that I interrupted your breakfast.”