Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I run a hand over my freckled jaw. “Oh crap, guess who came . . . Here’s your cognitive psych book.”
I grab the text wedged between the mattress and the bed rail. The book's breadth rivals any textbook I was required to purchase at NYU. “That’s everything, Dad.”
His mouth opens in protest. “Now, Lux, I’m still missing—”
“First of all, the only piece of literature invaluable to you is sticking out of your front pocket.” I gesture to the tiny pocket notebook that Detective Caruso graciously allowed me to hold onto the night Dad was shot.
He places a hand over it like one would their heart. That little undecipherable sucker never leaves his sight, and while he was fighting for his life, the book never left mine.
“Which segues into fact number two, since you have your little diary, if you want me to walk you home, don’t start. Those noodles you call arms could use the exercise.”
“Luxury Whitson.”
“Okay, okay.” I chuckle softly, helping place all the get-well cards in a duffle bag. Mindlessly, I toss the Rubik’s Cube in and open the door to his room. Since Victor’s abrupt departure from my life, I brooded over my widowed father lying in a hospital, and . . . him.
While I’ll be damned if Dad suffers any more sorrow, my season is here. I know it.
I just gotta rid my daydreams of Victor. Lord knows he’s the reason I no longer have nightmares of my momma. Now, I need him out of those too.
2
Victor
* * *
The Christmas lights decorating the college town of Arlington rival that of Oxford Street in London, though on a miniature scale. The quaint area is quiet the day after Christmas. All except for my company, Tudor Enterprise, which sits like a lump of coal—or rather a large hunk of cement—on an elevated bluff in Arlington. As I stand at a glass window in the conference room, I glance at the university below. I wear a slate-gray suit, which replaces my typical all-black attire. Still, I’m in a predatory mood, and in precisely two hundred and forty seconds, I’ll have another preselected victim to torment.
From the bud in my ear, my personal assistant Monica asks, “Are you certain about this one?”
“Very.”
“Well, Overton may resemble a teddy bear, but when stung—”
“I. Am. Certain.”
“Oh, alright. I’d not called to give a massive chin-wagging about the inevitable, but I did want to share that I bought Madeline pearl earrings for Christmas.”
“You’ve done well.” I hang up.
Bollocks. Burt has utilized the same Christmas list for the last decade. Pearls for Mum. Something trending on social media for my younger brother, Graham. A thoughtful antique for Grandmummy, etcetera. I must have overlooked Maddy if Monica took care of it.
We were to publicly announce our engagement the day after Jonah Whitson’s assassination attempt; however, Madeline’s grandmother became ill. The one-hundred-year-old was a prominent pillar of the family and a right mate to the Queen. It provided a proper reason to cancel. I’m sure my childhood best friend and the woman I’ve gotten myself into a predicament with has called my assistant for weeks. After Luxury vowed never to see me again, I had Monica hold all personal calls.
With thirty seconds to spare, board members file into the room, claiming each seat. Rubbish. I prefer to reign because they’ve forfeited their vote if their old arses aren’t present.
“I’ve reviewed twenty different failing businesses,” I begin, opening my leather-bound portfolio. “What do they all have in common?”
“Perhaps, they’re bloody enjoying the festive season?” One person chuckles drily.
I hold up a piece of paper. “Their livelihood has been summarized. Entire sources of income analyzed. I’ve made it my mission to know the risks associated with each one.”
I pause as my mobile vibrates. A text notification of Angelina’s lovely, naked body appears, followed by her message: You’re home, and I’m just hearing about it?
I click the ignore button. I’ve been celibate for almost two months, and my next taste will come from Luxury Whitson’s enchanting cunt.
I clear my throat. “Tomorrow, we will take Overton’s shop.”
A unified gasp fills the room.
“That’s preposterous,” begins Hartford.
“Anyone else with a soul that would like to oppose?” I stand up, smoothing my tie. No one says a word. “ ‘Tis the season to prosper.” You heartless wankers. Cruel, just like me.
I leave them all to digest the fact that the old chap everyone heralds as Saint Nick will be out of business. Now, he has an entire year to prepare himself for a new gimmick.
A few days later, in the hotel's private gym, air moves as I shift between powerful martial arts poses. I’ve yet to rid my mind of Luxury Whitson. How could someone so seemingly innocent and tiny not be within my grasp? Unruly coppery curls and curves haunt me. I visualize the spray of cinnamon freckles that adorn Luxury’s lovely body.