Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I stop abruptly. “This is insane. Check the footage at the Conrad Hotel. I was there with Alana. There’s proof. My credit card—”
My father cuts me off. “You should be thankful Charles and Alana are giving you a chance for a future. Everything I’ve worked for to make you who you are, and you disrespect me by doing this—”
“I’m not listening to this any longer. I didn’t do what those photos claim. Do something. We’re Monroes. Certainly, your influence can fix this. Make it go away.”
“It’s already done. We’ve handled it. Now, you will do what you must to keep this from getting out.”
“And that is?”
He leans back in his chair. “We’ve made this disappear, thanks to the Hills’ commitment. In return, you will show your gratitude. Charles and I have a promising business future together—and so will you and Alana.”
Chapter one
Fay
Present day
Damn, life is good. There’s no better feeling than being at the top of my game. The glittering lights of the nightclub sparkle as I sip champagne older than I am. The music vibrates in my ears and through my body. A droplet of sweat snakes down my chest. The sugary liquid coats my throat as I move to the rhythm. A masculine hand slides around me, and I find myself snuggled against a hard frame. I know that hand. I suck in my lower lip as a rush of excitement floods my system. The warmth of his breath skates along my already heated ear, reigniting the spark of arousal and making me even more wet between my thighs.
Thinking about that sends a live wire to my core. I quickly turn, desperate for his mouth on mine. Shifting in his arms, I lift my chin, impatient for his touch. “Take me back to your place and fuck me, Miguel. I’m so moist for you. I need you to ravage my body.”
His deep voice tickles my cheek as his lips graze mine. “I love it when you use the word ‘moist.’ It makes my mouth water.” His grip tightens, and I sigh as his hardness presses against my belly. “I’m going to drink you in and fill my mouth with your slick—”
“Fay. . .”
“Yes, keep going. Come get all my moistness—”
“Fay. . .”
He starts to pull away. “No, no—where are you going? I’m ready. So hot and ready! Moist. Super moist—”
“Fay!”
“What!” I snap out of my dream and turn onto my belly. God! Stupid sex dream ruiner. Just when things were about to get good with my imaginary lover. I groan into my pillow and cover my head with the sheet. “Mom, it’s so early. Can we talk, like, maybe. . . when the sun comes up?”
“Honey, the sun is up. It spent an entire day in the sky. Now, it’s nighttime. Dinner time, to be exact.”
Shit, really? I peel an eye open. “It’s night?” Damn. I feel like I slept for five minutes. And I may still be drunk. “Sorry. Late night at the bar. People love their booze.” Including me. I groan at the unease in my stomach. Being a bartender has its perks, free shots. It also has its downfalls, too many free shots.
“Fable, you’ve been saying that for six months. I know you’re upset about what happened at the restaurant, but this needs to end.”
“Mom, not this again. I told you, I’m not upset.” Hell yeah, I’m upset. I didn’t spend the last four years busting my ass to finally land my dream job as a commis chef at the hottest restaurant in the city only to be sabotaged by Tristan Hamlin, the worst human being to ever walk this earth.
My chest tightens as I swallow down the anger at the reminder of all my hard work down the drain.
After high school, I got accepted into one of the top culinary schools in the nation. After three years of mastering my art, I graduated top of my class. The program was extensive—difficult for most—but I was in heaven. I showed skills that took years for some to learn. My exceptional cooking and hard work were praised by all my instructors. And when I left, I had the training, technique, and talent for top-notch, gourmet cooking.
I spent the next year working my ass off at an up-and-coming restaurant in New York City until I got a call from my mentor at the culinary institute offering me an opportunity I could not refuse.
Sullivan’s was the most elite restaurant in upper Manhattan. You had to be someone or know someone to get a reservation. And if you got in within six months? You were really someone. With a stellar referral from Titiana, who happened to be an old flame of Miguel Lorenzo, the owner and head chef, I joined the kitchen in a commis chef position.
Right alongside Tristan fucking Hamlin.