Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
“It’s definitely not nothing,” she quickly says. “Oh my giddy aunt, there is somebody, isn’t there?”
“Did you just say, oh my giddy aunt?”
“Do not change the subject.”
“Seriously, it’s … I don’t even know.”
“But it’s something. Some. Thing.” She enunciates each word. “That, my dear Maya, is a huge, huge development. So please don’t downplay it.”
“What is something, really, Rye?” I say. “If I look at my boss, and my boss looks at me, and he sort of shudders, and I read into it, does that count? Because I don’t think it should.”
“Steamy eye contact with your boss? Now we’re talking.”
“It wasn’t steamy.”
“But you like him?”
I shrug, trying not to make it seem like a big deal. Nothing has happened romantically. “He’s been so, so good to me. He basically saved Mom and me, but it’s not like that.”
“How old is he?” Riley asks in that way she has, which makes it seem like the most important question.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, getting that strange, heady feeling when I think about the creases near his eyes. “Maybe in his mid to late thirties.”
“Whoa.”
“I’ve always found it difficult to tell people’s ages anyway. Plus, there’s no need for that whoa, Rye. Nothing has happened. He’s just a nice guy doing a good thing.”
“Sorry, Maya, but that’s too naïve to listen to. Do you seriously think a man will do something for a lady for the hell of it?”
I try not to shiver. The thought of him grabbing me from behind one day, his powerful hands on my shoulders, leaning in with his firm, commanding voice. “You belong to me now. You’ll do exactly what I say.” I could let go just for once. I wouldn’t have to be in charge or in control.
Yet it’s just not realistic.
“So I guess he’s banging the receptionist too, then,” I say sarcastically, “because Simone is way hotter than me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to ruin this for you.”
“The job is a handout. He wants to feel good about himself. All I can do is work hard and make sure I can look at myself in the mirror and honestly say I put real effort in.”
I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, Riley or myself, but then her phone buzzes, and she almost leaps out of her skin. “He’s here,” she squeals. “If you still want to …”
I go to her window and look out onto the street. A limo is parked outside.
“Oh,” I mutter.
Riley walks up next to me. “What, did you think it would be a bunch of wasters in some beat-up junker? Matteo’s parents are loaded.”
“So that’s why you like him,” I say, nerves dancing in my belly.
“Ha, ha. Hey, are you okay?”
The nerves twist, every instinct in my body telling me not to do this. It’s not even because of the Mob thing, even if it should be. No, it’s just the social atmosphere, the unknown.
This feels like a big night—a wild night. I’ll be safe like I was in high school. I’ll retreat to the edge of the party, even leave if I have to, making sure Rye comes with me, again, like the old days.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Let’s get this party started.”
She takes my arm, letting a flurry of pure excited energy go. Before we leave, she gets semiserious again. “Listen, that stuff about your boss, I’m sorry. You’re probably right. I’m being pessimistic. I’m sure there are good men out there, men who actually want to help and aren’t perverts.”
“The messed-up part is, I wouldn’t exactly hate it if he felt that way about me.” I quickly put my hand over her mouth. “Don’t say anything. Maybe I’ve got a workplace crush. Okay, that happens. It’s not a big deal.”
“For you, it is,” she says through my fingertips.
I lower my hand, smiling, trying to make light of it. Her words slam heavily into me. She’s right. For me, even having a crush is just craziness.
“Well, it’s not like you’re going to go and tell him, is it?”
“You don’t even have to ask that,” she says. “You know I’d never tell anybody anything about you. Ever.”
“I know.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TRISTAN
Raffie leans against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s got an unlit cigarette hanging from between his lips. As a kid, he was lean and had a full head of black hair. Now, he has a pot belly and a receding hairline he covers with a bad combover, which he distracts from with a lot of jewelry.
A perk of being a Mobbed-up Trentini insider is nobody gives him crap about any of that, I guess.
“You look good, brother,” he says. “Strong.”
I throw out a couple of jabs, the announcer’s voice booming through the walls.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
Raffie scowls. “Can’t you at least try to have fun?”