Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
My little carjacker walked in ahead of me, hood still up, nodding her chin at the man standing in the kitchen window.
“Seat yourself,” he called, prompting her to grab two menus and start walking down the short aisle of tables, choosing the one in the corner. That, I noted, allowed her to see both the front and the side doors, where our waitress was standing smoking.
It wasn’t until I slid into the booth that she did the same, then reached up to push the hoodie off her head.
And, fuck.
She was gorgeous.
She had an unexpectedly delicate face, almost pixie-like, with small bones, a slightly upturned nose, and warm brown eyes that were fucking boring into me.
“You look familiar,” she said, gaze moving over my features.
“Wish I could say the same,” I said, glancing over the menu because I was pretty sure I’d be a creep just staring at her if I didn’t distract myself.
Even focused elsewhere, I caught the movement as she reached back, removing a claw clip from her hair, and shaking the long, silky dark strands loose to frame her face in wavy layers.
And, fuck me, her hair smelled like fucking strawberries. I could smell it clear across the table.
“Can I get you something to drink?” our raspy-voiced waitress asked as she walked toward the table, bringing a cloud of cigarette scent with her that choked out the strawberry.
“Coffee, please,” she said.
“Milk or cream?”
“Neither,” she said and I tried not to feel awkward about getting the cream with mine.
“Everything is good,” she told me as I flipped through the pages of the menu. Six of them in total. Everything from breakfast to questionable seafood options.
I’d had nothing to do all day but snack on the shit I packed in the car, so when the waitress came back, I just ordered a side of fries.
“And for you?” she asked, looking at the woman as I added a few creamers to my coffee, frustrated when it was still so dark afterward.
“The fried chicken with half fries, half onion rings, a chocolate milkshake, and a small order of the waffles,” she said, making my brows shoot up.
The hoodie was roomy, but I was reasonably sure she was on the thin side underneath. Where the fuck would she be putting all that food?
“You got it,” the waitress said, taking out menus, then walking away.
Across from me, the woman sipped her coffee, prompting me to do the same, wincing at how bitter it was.
“Men,” she said, rolling her eyes as she passed the sugar toward me. “Just add the damn sugar,” she told me. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me who you are.”
“Anthony,” I told her, grabbing a small pile of sugar packets, and ripping their tops off before pouring the granules into the coffee.
“Anthony who?” she asked, pinning me with those stunning eyes. All hooded and sleepy-looking. The kind of eyes I imagined people meant when they called them ‘bedroom eyes.’
I cleared my throat as my mind went right into the bedroom with layers of clothes getting peeled off.
“Costa,” I told her.
It was a name that would likely mean nothing to the average person.
But I saw the recognition in a slight widening of her eyes, in the way her back stiffened.
“Costa,” she repeated, tapping her fingers against her coffee mug, drawing my attention down to her short, unpainted nails, and the way three of her knuckles had recently been busted open.
Interesting.
“Yep,” I agreed, nodding. “You have a name?”
“Not one you’d recognize,” she said.
“I still want to hear it.”
“Saylor,” she admitted. “Granger.”
She was right. That name meant nothing to me. And I prided myself on trying to be on top of any major players in the criminal world.
“Okay, Saylor. Wanna tell me what you were doing casing out the house belonging to a Czech criminal organization?”
“Sure. If you tell me why you were doing the same.”
“It was my job to keep an eye on them, see what they’re up to.”
“Your job. Were your orders given by Lorenzo Costa, Capo dei Capi of the Five Families?” she asked, studying my face as she said it.
“Yep,” I agreed. “Who are you working for?”
“Myself,” she said.
“Yourself? What the fuck could you have to do with a syndicate like that?”
“Oh, because little ol’ me couldn’t possibly have her own agenda?” she asked.
“Not what I meant,” I said, shaking my head. “Most people don’t work alone.”
“I do.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “And what is your line of work?”
To that, she sucked in a deep breath, gaze moving out the picture window for a moment, watching a couple cross the street, the woman dancing and smiling, the man’s gaze moving over her as she shimmied at him, reaching for his hand, trying to get him to dance with her.
“I’m—“ she started, but was cut off by the clanking of a plate down in front of her. “Fried chicken, fries, onion rings, waffles, and a milkshake,” the waitress said, pulling plates off her arms, leaving red impressions in their wake from the heat. “And fries,” she said, dropping a plate in front of me.