Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
She must have forgotten something because she doesn’t come in right away. That gives me an extra few seconds to finish things off.
I’m polishing the mirror on the back of the door when something behind me catches my eye. There’s a smear behind the left sink. I spin, determined to get it before Marcella walks in. I reach it just as the double doors to the bathroom open.
I glance up expecting Marcella in the reflection, but it’s not her I see.
The room sways, but I manage to spin until I’m face-to-face with… Bennett.
I reach for the marble counter to steady myself. I glance down to find he’s bare-chested. He’s only wearing shorts, and even though I’ve seen him in less, it takes me a minute to get my breath.
I know what that chest feels like. I know what those hands can do. I know how his mouth tastes.
“What the fuck are you doing in my bathroom?” he yells, pulling me out of the vortex of memories from last night.
His bathroom?
His tone takes me by surprise. Last night he seemed to be the kind of guy who wouldn’t be fazed by anything or anyone. Like he could stand, with his hands in his pockets, and wouldn’t move if a hurricane passed through. Yet me cleaning his bathroom is getting him riled.
“Cleaning your mirror, dickwad. What does it look like I’m doing?”
Shit. I probably shouldn’t have said that, given he’s a guest.
He takes a couple of steps toward me and I have to move back, so I’m half-lying on the sinks. His eyes are narrowed and suspicious, his mouth taut. He’s seething. “What are you really doing here? How did you know this was my room?”
I push his chest and dip under his arm to get away. “Stop being an asshole. I’m cleaning your bathroom. And now I’m done, so goodbye.” I turn, scurry out of the bathroom and fling open the door to the suite. Marcella is two steps away, and she must see the panic in my eyes.
Her gaze darts behind me, and I realize Bennett is following me.
“Who are you?” he thunders.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Fordham,” Marcella says. “Eddie here is new. We were just finishing your suite. We’re all done.”
I don’t turn to see his expression. I just walk briskly towards the trollies outside the Avenue Suite, determined to hide the tremor in my hands.
FIVE
Bennett
I scroll through emails on my phone as I stand with my back against the door to “Efa’s” apartment. I don’t expect her to appear, but if there’s the slightest chance, I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to confront her. I have to know who she’s working for.
I’m furious that my team hasn’t managed to find a connection between Efa or Eddie Cadogan, the woman I fucked last night, and any tech company. She’s good at what she does. So far, everything she told me checks out. I remembered she said she went to Exeter University in the UK, which the team confirmed. They’ve even tracked the owner of this apartment—Vincent Cove, the cousin of Eddie’s sister’s fiancé. I’m pretty certain she said he was her brother-in-law, but it’s close enough not to matter.
Vincent Cove doesn’t have much of a connection to tech. He has his fingers in a lot of pies, but there’s no obvious connection between him and anything Fort Inc. is doing. I just can’t connect the dots.
The elevator’s doors rattle, then open, and I stand up straight, hoping Efa’s got the nerve to show.
To my surprise, she rounds the corner.
She sees me and rolls her eyes. “What have I done to deserve this?” she asks. “If you get me fired, I’m going to lose it. A friend of a friend of my brother-in-law got me this job, and I don’t want to fuck it up.”
I snort. She’s still continuing with this made-up story. “Another brother-in-law. Yeah, right. Why don’t you tell me who you’re working for and they can be the subject of my ire instead of you?”
“Ire? How old are you exactly, Grandad?”
“A decent vocabulary isn’t exclusive to older generations.” What am I doing? I don’t need an argument about semantics. I want answers. “Tell me who you’re working for.”
She digs around in her purse and pulls out a set of keys. “If I have to, I’ll call the police. Move out of my way.”
“Efa, just tell me who you’re working for.” I deliberately block her path.
“Gretel!” she shouts. “She manages The Avenue. That’s my boss.”
“Shut up!” someone shouts from somewhere behind a wall. Our argument is clearly being overheard.
I step forward so I don’t have to raise my voice and instantly regret it, because I can smell peaches. Memories from our night together flash through my brain like a slideshow. I close my eyes and will them away. I need to focus on extracting information, not reliving my manipulation.