Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“He might not,” I say quietly.
James looks at me. Just me. “Tom’s funeral can’t be anything but a funeral.”
“Understood. The delivery on Friday.”
“Beau understands the assignment.”
“I can’t believe we’ve agreed to this,” I mutter. “I definitely can’t believe you have.” But I get it. If James doesn’t keep Beau close, keep her mind as occupied as possible, she’ll be gone.
“You got any other suggestions?”
I blow out my cheeks in answer as Otto’s laptop pings, and all attention is soon rediverted from me to the screen. I join the masses, looking at the small pop-up that’s appeared in the bottom righthand corner. It’s not small enough. My mum’s name glows at me.
There are a few oh fucks as Otto speedily drags his laptop back and turns it. “You,” I say, pushing my hands into the table and rising.
“Danny,” James warns.
“You . . . you . . . you . . .”
“Calm the fuck down.”
“Fucker,” I hiss, my temperature going through the roof.
“I think a lot of your mother, Danny,” Otto says, standing. “A lot.” Everyone else at the table shrinks into their chairs, while I twitch like I’ve been tasered. A lot? What does that mean? Love? Sex? I inhale. Has he got her into bed? “You won’t control her anymore.” Otto goes on, obviously not done. “You won’t hold her to ransom and use her past against her.”
What? I do no such thing. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I only want what’s best for her, and a man with a history of fucking and indulging in strippers isn’t it.
“I’m talking about her well-being being in my hands, not yours,” Otto goes on. “And I’m not about to stand by and watch you throw your toys out your pram. Get fucking used to it.”
“Fucking hell,” Brad breathes.
“Sit, Danny,” James says, grabbing my arm and fighting to pull me down. I’m unmoving.
“You’ve brainwashed her,” I seethe. “Shown her a bit of attention and taken advantage of her naivety.”
Otto laughs. It’s the worst thing he could do. I’m across that table like a bullet, rugby tackling him to the floor and delivering a brutal right hook, sending blood from his nose spraying. “You keep your filthy hands to yourself,” I yell, falling to my back when Otto shoves me off him.
“I’m nothing but respectful around your mother. You’re lucky you’re her son or you’d be dead,” he growls, wiping his nose of blood as I scramble up, ready to charge. But someone’s between us before I’m out of the docks.
“Move, Rose,” I order.
“Fuck off.” She takes my arm and manhandles me outside, and I don’t fight because . . .
Rose.
“What the hell are you playing at?” She shoves me down the steps, gaining the attention of many. “You’re a fucking child.”
And because she’s right, I retaliate. And maybe because I’ve concluded that I’m already in her bad books so I may as well spill a few secrets. “Esther’s not coming back to Miami,” I snarl.
“Wrong.” She smiles, and it’s one hundred percent smug. “And Daniel’s coming too.”
“What?”
“Lennox has business in Montenegro to see to before he brings Barney to Miami to see his parents, so he can no longer babysit while my husband shoots his way through the city and holds me against my will because he’s worried I’ll have my head turned by a dashing, single banker.”
Good Lord, save me before I kill her. I have no words. Am incapable of talking. She’s one step ahead. Seems like everyone is. “I . . . it’s . . . why the—” I throw my arm out toward the cabin. “He said he thinks a lot of my mother.”
“Good.” She pokes me in my naked shoulder. “You will stay out of it.”
I snort. Never. “Get your arse home,” I snap, barging past her, set on going to finish what I started with Otto. I get precisely two paces before something connects with the back of my head with force, immediately putting stars in my vision. “Fuck!” I hit the deck, my head instantly throbbing, and roll on to my back, dazed.
Rose appears standing over me. “I’m going shopping,” she says. “So I can make my son and his grandmother something nice for dinner when they arrive.”
“They’re really coming?”
“Yes.” She sneers. “Your dinner will be in the dogs.” She pulls her hair free of the band, shakes it out, flicks it over her shoulder, and saunters off. “I’m taking Fury,” she yells back. “And I’ve text you your mom’s flight details so you can pick them up from the airport when you’ve seen to business for the day.”
I lift my head, watching her go, her arse cheeks very nearly poking out the bottom of her denim shorts. “Those shorts are too short!”
Two middle fingers appear and, sick fuck that I am, I smile, rubbing at my head as I stand.