Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“I didn’t say that. I’m just not sure they’re right for Brina Bristol.”
How does Armstrong know this shit if I don’t?
Do I not care about her as much as I think I do, or am I really so self-absorbed I can’t pick out a decent gift for the only woman I’ve ever loved?
“What would be better?” I ask quietly.
A second later, I answer my own question.
“Wait. Take us to Sweeter Grind.”
Armstrong lets out a low, deep chuckle. “Now that sounds more like it!”
We make our pit stop, and soon I’m knocking on Brina’s door, holding a steaming cinnamon latte and a box of Clarissa’s Finest Truffles under my arm.
Her roommate answers the door in oven mitts, a perky, mischievous-looking blonde holding a pie in her hand.
“Hi, Paige,” I say, my voice level.
“You again? What are you doing here?”
“I brought Sabrina a cinnamon latte and truffles.” I hold the cup up. “Her favorite.”
“Ohhh, bad timing. She just went on a caffeine purge and a no sugar kick. I’ll tell her you stopped by, though.” Her free hand lingers on the door, and she starts to push it closed.
I jab my foot between the door and its frame.
“It’s decaf and almond milk. Can I speak with her please?”
“Liar, and no. Now move your foot before I break it.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I snarl, but catch myself, forcing a fake-as-hell smile. “Sabrina told me about your sense of humor. I’m laughing. Inside.”
Paige frowns, her eyes snapping to the pie in her hand, before returning to meet my gaze.
“Are you done, Magnus? I’m pretty busy.”
My jaw clenches. I thought no one could be more blunt or stubborn than Sabrina.
“I need to speak with Brina,” I growl.
“And I need a million dollars but oh well! You need to get out of my apartment.”
“Or what?”
She looks down at the pie. “Dunno, but it involves you wearing whipped cream.”
I motion her forward.
“Bring it.”
She frowns. I knew I was calling her bluff.
“Well, or maybe I’ll just call the police and say you’re stalking us,” she tells me.
“It’ll take them an hour to get here in rush hour. I’ll stand here until then. You’re not her gatekeeper.”
“Wrong. She appointed me to be—”
“Look. Just tell her I’m sincerely sorry—ready to grovel even—and need to talk to her. Please.” I hate how my voice is already hoarse, pleading.
Paige glares. “What makes you so sure she’s here, anyway?”
“My driver helped her buy the little red convertible parked out front.”
For a second, Paige looks surprised, before melting back into that mask of brute sarcasm. “Maybe she’s with her boyfriend.”
“Liar.” I shake my head.
“Careful. Hate to break it to you, but she hates you so much she’d rather go back to work at that stupid pet place where they talked trash about her designs than ever have to look at you again. I’m not bothering her with your shit. Show yourself out.” She kicks against the toe of my shoe, trying to get me to move my leg.
Sorry, girl. I’m not going anywhere.
She frowns. “You’re really not going to leave nicely?”
I don’t respond.
“And you’re not afraid of the cops?”
I didn’t say that. Only that we have a while to wait if she calls them, and I’m holding out hope Sabrina might give me an inch to talk to her.
“How much do you like your fancy suit?” she asks.
“Excuse me?” The question catches me off guard. “Sabrina likes it just fine. Why?”
Paige nods slowly.
Before I can think, the pie in her hand comes barreling at my face.
There’s a loud slap like a wet sponge hitting a cement floor.
Then I’m drowning in flavors I don’t particularly like. Sweet-tasting cream and strawberries drip down my blazer and formerly starched white shirt.
“Bad move, buster. You interrupted my baking time,” she snaps, a hellish smile on her face.
In shock, I drop the coffee I’ve been holding. Somehow, the lid flies off and scalding cinnamon latte splashes my leg. I wipe my hand over my eyes with a groan, slinging off strawberries and cream, just as my phone rings.
“Can I at least have a towel?”
“No. But I’ll take those.” I feel her reach out and yank the truffle box from under my arm.
Right before she kicks me in the shin again.
I stumble back, stunned and dazed from the pie to the face and my phone blaring.
The door slams.
The lock clicks.
Someone passing by in the hall smothers a surprised laugh.
This is not my fucking day.
I wipe my pie-covered hands on my trousers—this suit’s ruined anyhow—and answer the phone.
“Heron,” I growl.
“Mr. Heron, this is Nurse Becky from Northwestern Memorial. Miss Quail is awake and asking for her son.”
Fuck.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.
“Again? What did you tell her this time? I’m on my way.”
“I told her I’d call you and see if you could bring him in.”
“My father left the country with the kid,” I grind out, hating everything. “I’m working on it. Is Marissa more conscious than the last few times?”