Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
It makes me sad that someone like him knows what that's like. He didn't deserve it, and I think he hates Halloween because of it.
"Pull over," I say, coming to an instant decision.
He turns to look at me, his brows furrowed.
"Just trust me, Drake." I smile at him. "Pull over."
He reluctantly navigates the truck to the curb, parking outside an old Victorian that looks like Halloween vomited all over it. There are fake gravestones all over the yard, with body bags hanging in the trees. Spiders dangle beside them from strings.
Honestly, if I ever find out who decided spiders should be a whole thing, we're going to war. I might even learn to fight just to make it happen.
"We need a bag." I unlatch my seatbelt and start rummaging through his truck. For a reclusive billionaire, he has a lot of crap in it. I toss pens and notebooks and at least fifteen different packages of gum into the backseat. "Okay, seriously. Why so many notebooks?"
"I take a lot of notes." He shrugs defensively.
"About what?"
"Businesses."
I narrow my eyes on him. "Uh, what exactly do you do, Drake? Spy for a foreign government?"
He chuckles. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a smart ass?"
"A time or two."
"We own nine different companies," he mutters. "My brother, Jack, calls me nine thousand times a day to discuss something or another about one of them. It's easier to keep his bullshit straight if I write it down."
"You own nine companies? Impressive." I wouldn't even know what to do with one company. Trying to keep the inner workings of nine of them straight seems exhausting to me. I toss another notebook in the back and grab a pair of boxers off the floorboard.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters.
I dangle them from my fingers, turning to look at him. "Um. Why are your underwear glowing in the dark?"
He makes a grab for them, but I quickly hold them out of his reach, smirking. "Don't look at those, unicorn."
"Oh, I'm definitely looking at these." I unfold them and then crack up laughing. "Why are their stick figure people doing it on the crotch of your underwear, Drake?"
"They aren't stick figures. They're constellations."
"Okay. So why are constellation people doing it on the crotch of your underwear?"
"Because my asshole brother thinks he's funny," he mutters, stretching across the seat to grab them from me. He immediately balls them up and tosses them into the backseat over his shoulder. "It's supposed to be The Big Bang."
"Oh, clever." I giggle and then reach into the floorboard again, coming up with an empty plastic bag. "Aha!"
"Unicorn, why do you need an empty plastic bag? What are we doing here?"
"We're going trick or treating."
He eyes me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. I mean, I probably have. We're too old for this, and I know that. But he hates Halloween because of the bad memories associated with the holiday. And if anyone gets that, I do. I have my own bad memories battling around in the back of my head. But this isn't about me. It's about him.
I want to remind him that the memories aren't all bad. At one point, he loved this holiday. He said it was his favorite. He didn't deserve to have that enjoyment taken from him by bullies.
Is going trick or treating utterly ridiculous? Yes. Is it worth it if it erases those little lines from around his eyes? Also yes.
"Why?"
"Because this entire town freaking loves Halloween, Drake," I remind him. "Do you really think they're going to care if we ring the bell and ask for a piece of candy?"
"Why, Madeline?"
I huff out a breath. "Because I know what it feels like to live with trauma," I admit. "My parents divorced when I was a kid, and I was their tug-of-war rope. I had everything, but I never felt like I had their love. Everything they did for me, they did just to spite the other. It ruined a lot of holidays." I shrug, glancing down at the bag in my hands. "Maybe I don't like the thought of this one being permanently ruined for you because you have trauma, too."
"Damn," he says, lacing our fingers together.
I like the way they fit together. I like the weight of his palm against mine. I like the way my stomach flutters and my core clenches. I like way too freaking much about this man. It's dangerous and addictive. I should pull away, put distance between us…but I don't.
It's like I'm physically incapable of doing it.
"That's a rough way to grow up, unicorn."
"Yeah, it is." I risk a glance up at him to find him staring at me. "I get what it's like to feel alone. I felt that way most of my life. I don't like that you feel that way too." I exhale a breath. "So get your hot ass out of the truck, Whitlock. You're going trick or treating."