Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
“Ah, yes, and how’s that going?”
If Aurora was any other PR manager, I wouldn’t share any of this. But I’ve worked with her for over a decade. When she renewed her vows, I was a groomsman for her husband, George.
“Not great. She doesn’t know I….”
Suddenly, I stop, realizing something.
Alice texted me first, which means she somehow acquired my number… maybe she got it from Aurora. Unfortunately, I can’t let Alice’s boss know she may have broken a rule to get my phone number.
“Doesn’t know…?” Aurora prompts.
“That I’m standing outside here like a freak.” I attempt a grin. “I should get going.”
It’s painful, turning away, but it’s necessary.
“Be careful,” Aurora calls after me. “As far as the world’s concerned, you saved a woman called Kennedy because you have feelings for her.”
I groan, pushing the door open, stalking down the hallway.
Outside, leaning against the building, I don’t think.
I just text, my thumbs moving as though they have a life of their own.
I know I want to see you, I type. In person.
People start recognizing me as I walk down the street. It’s one of the worst parts about this job.
It’s not the individual fans, but when they become a mob, when the people melt together and become one big seething mass of attention.
Climbing into my car, I drive away.
Alice hasn’t responded.
I wonder if she will.
CHAPTER 8
Alice
Why would he want to see me in person?
The question repeats in my mind over and over as I go through my work day. My supervisor has arrived, meaning I can’t take out my phone and text back.
Not that I’d know what to say.
There’s only one reasonable answer to my question, surely.
Weston doesn’t know who Miss Mystery is. Only my age, I’m a woman… and I’ve suffered a tragedy.
Could it be that he’s seen a chance for an easy hookup?
But a man like Weston Wyatt wouldn’t need to seize on a stranger through text. He could have an endless series of supermodels if he desired it.
Maybe it’s a fetish, then, a thrill I don’t understand, meeting up with a stranger.
This could have happened before, a woman texting him out of nowhere, and then he meets up with her and discovers she’s an Instagram model, some beautiful, sleek woman who can fulfill all his fantasies.
But if I turn up….
I try to think of Natasha’s voice, the things she’d say to me before she fell into this current petty mood.
You’re gorgeous, Alice. You’re far prettier than you give yourself credit for.
There’s irony in the memory, since Natasha is so obsessed with her own image these days. But this was before Mom passed, before we each spent large portions of our life trying not to spiral into grief.
I focus on my work, trying not to constantly glance at the clock and count the seconds until lunchtime.
It’s not as though I know what I’m going to tell him, anyway, not as though I’ve got any clue how I will respond to his frankly crazy request.
He wants to see me… in person.
The in-person part makes me cringe every time it occurs to me, though that’s exactly what we’ll need to do if this deranged life I’m dreaming about ever comes true.
As I work, I think about the day Weston shows up outside the office, an easy smirk on his lips as he waits for me.
Everybody will be staring at him like they always do, but then he’ll see me, and everybody else, even women like Kennedy, will realize they stand no chance.
Not when they see the way Weston looks at me, his intense eyes flooding with instant desire and love, the two clashing, becoming something unique and captivating.
Finally, it’s time for lunch.
I take my sandwiches to the back of the cafeteria and place my phone on the desk, staring down at his most recent message.
There are a lot of things I could say, many methods I could use to respond to his request.
I could be flirty and enticing.
I could promise him all manner of intimate adventures.
But then I return to the thought of him seeing me for the first time… or second since we technically met in Aurora’s office.
The tightness in his mouth. The sudden regret.
Perhaps he’ll try to be polite, using his acting skills to pretend he still wants me, to pretend he isn’t massively disappointed in what he sees.
Why? I ask, deciding to keep it simple.
I don’t expect a reply immediately, but one makes me wonder if he’s been waiting for my message all morning.
The thought is far too hopeful, but it lingers anyway.
Most likely, he just happened to be on his phone.
Because I find you interesting, Miss Mystery, he replies. I thought you’d want to meet.
Is that because women often text you out of the blue wanting to meet?
I send the message before I can stop myself, then take a big bite of my sandwich, not letting myself think about how unfair it is, getting petty and possessive when he doesn’t even know who I am or even one-tenth of what I want from him.