Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 99(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 99(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
“Ah,” Sterling remarks, wincing sympathetically. “I think we need to get Adam and Sinclair in here to hear the story.”
I shoot him a glare that lacks proper frustration. Adam, his personal assistant, and our middle brother, Sinclair, will chomp at the bit for every little detail they can wrangle from Sterling. “Why? You’ll just tell them every goddamn thing later anyway.”
“But it’s so much better if they hear it from the source.”
I huff and raise my middle finger to him. “Fuck you.” It’s a weak gesture, but it’s all I can manage right now.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and I’m betting he’s messaging my pain and unhappiness to the family group chat before looking back up at me. “You’re off your game. Meeting your soulmate does it to the best of us, but don’t worry. We’ve got your back.” That’s exactly what I’m fucking worried about. “I’d start with calling the bar. See if anyone knows where she might be.” I hate it when the fucker comes up with perfectly reasonable solutions I should’ve thought of myself.
Chapter 5
Romi
After a long sleepless night, I’m sporting dark raccoon eyes and a good case of bedhead. I spent the entire night tossing and turning like a fish out of water, absolutely kicking my own rear end for bolting out on Sullivan like I was being chased by a pack of werewolves.
Sure, my heart was pounding out of my chest, but it wasn’t from fear. Well, not the kind of fear you’d find in a haunted theme park, anyway. No, this throb was pure adrenaline mixed with scary emotions caused by the shocking connection I felt with him.
Fast forward through a night devoid of any dreamless sleep, and I’m back at Trick or Treat, sleeves rolled up, and trying to focus on the mundane comfort of restocking the bar.
The bar is still quiet, save for a few early-bird regulars who treat this place like their own personal coffee shop, which is fine as long as they’re paying. I’m trying to immerse myself in lining up the bottles of top-shelf spirits exactly three-and-a-half inches from the ledge when suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stands up like the universe flipped the switch labeled “cosmic chemistry.”
I don’t even need to turn around to know Sullivan just walked through the door. My pulse kicks up, ricocheting between excitement and anxiety. Part of me is elated, hoping maybe he’s here to sweep me off my weary feet and prove our connection wasn't a fluke. The other part of me? Well, it’s scanning for the nearest escape route.
Sullivan Midnight owns the room. Not just because his family basically founded the town, but because he’s got this magnetic aura about him. Tall, dark, and handsome in the kind of way that sets my entire system on high alert and causes my lady bits to wake up and sing even after the solo-workout they got last night.
Time to confront what I very stupidly ran away from. Swallowing hard, I paste a resolute, easy-going smile onto my face and prepare to turn around and face him, heart pounding like I've downed five espressos too many.
The late afternoon bar atmosphere feels suddenly warm and crowded, even though there’s just a spattering of patrons. I feel a little better when I notice how disheveled he looks. Of course, he somehow still manages to carry the devilish, “I’ve come to suck your blood,” kind of appearance. His dark hair is tousled more than it was last night, and those bright blue eyes scan the room, settling on me with a look that’s somewhere between happy to see me and ready to strangle me.
“Good afternoon, or whatever passes for it in our little nocturnal town,” I greet, and trying to play it cool, slide the bottle into perfect alignment without dropping it.
“Hello, Romi.” His voice, deep with a hint of unspoken things that could consume us both if we’re not careful, tugs at something deep inside me. The fact that he says my name like it’s some kind of invocation doesn’t help my mushy heart or hussy girly parts.
“Hi.” I paste a bright smile on my face that’s as fake as the Louis Vuitton purse in my locker.
Sullivan slides onto a barstool and stares into my soul. “Got time for a chat?”
I blink, caught between wanting to confess every wild thought that’s invaded my sleep and keeping them all tucked away safely on some dusty mental shelf. “I can talk and work at the same time. Let’s call it multitasking.” I gesture with a bar towel, trying to sound more playful than awkward. “As long as you don’t mind talking amidst hangover remedy requests and cocktail prep.”
He laughs, a sound rich enough to turn me into a puddle of goo. “I’m up for the challenge. Anyway, I wanted to apologize about last night.”