Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
By the time I’ve settled on a torn leather seat amid a crowd of New Yorkers all rushing somewhere, her response has hit my phone.
Eloise: Or I could just keep questioning it and make you ANGRY because that fuck was out of this world.
My cock stirs inside my jeans as I read it once, and then again.
I was angry when I fucked her, and I sure as hell hate that whoever the guy is in that photo likely has had his hands on her, too.
“Oh, my,” a woman’s voice says from my left. “You must be a lot of fun.”
“Jesus,” I whisper.
People in this city need to keep their eyes to themselves and off of other people’s phones.
I finally glance at her. She’s blonde with a low cut blouse on and a leather briefcase sitting on her lap. She holds out a business card. “I don’t know if this is classified as a meet cute, but I’m game to see where it goes.”
I laugh that off as I wave a hand in refusal. “I’m good.”
“Judging from that text, you’re better than good, and I can be bad if it involves the right punishment.”
I turn the screen of my phone toward my lap even though it’s gone dark. “I’m not looking for anything.”
She nods. “Fair enough, but do you have a brother?”
I let out a chuckle. “No brothers.”
“My loss.” She flashes me a smile. “I hope the rest of your day is as good as last night was.”
Last night was shit. Mr. Brokenshire’s heart stopped beating twice and that meant I had to scrub in and stand watch while Logan operated on his burns.
I witnessed a man I hate save a life, and then I walked away without a word of thanks to him.
The train slows as we approach the next stop.
“This is me,” the blonde announces. “Last chance to take your anger out on me, Garin.”
My head snaps to the left to look at her. “What?”
Have I fucked her? Does she somehow recognize me from the club?
“It’s that book in your hand.” She laughs. “That name sort of suits you, and you look like you could be a poet. The messy hair, the scruffy jaw, swollen lip, and those tattoos. It’s a look. It’s a damn hot look.”
I rub a finger over my bruised lip. “My name’s not Garin.”
It is, but only to one woman. I never want to hear another utter that name to me again.
She exits the train without another word or another glance from me, and I continue on to the stop closest to my apartment so I can shower and get to doing what I do best — burying the unspeakable pain from my past beneath my profession.
CHAPTER FORTY
Eloise
School today was everything I love about fashion.
I got to brainstorm a new project with one of my favorite fellow designers. She’s focused on textile too, but her medium is weaving. I had to work on the looms for a project months ago, but she took me to her special spot on campus today and revealed something she’s been devoted to for months.
It was an elaborate piece that will eventually sit on the wall of her mom’s office on Park Avenue.
Her mom plans on placing a price tag on it that is worthy of the work that went into it.
My parents have been just as supportive of my desire to create a career out of my knitted and crocheted pieces. They did offer help in the form of a lump sum of money to help me with tuition and living expenses.
I’ll repay them one day when my business is trotting along at a decent pace.
As I’m exiting the subway stop closest to my apartment, I catch a glimpse of red hair in a crowd of people heading my way.
I already know who it is.
Penny sprouts up to her tiptoes when she spots me. “Els!”
No one bothers to look because this is Manhattan. They all have their own lives to lead and unless you’re a celebrity or openly propositioning someone for a date or more directly, random sex, most people won’t pay attention to you.
As soon as the group of people around her disperses, she sprints toward me.
She must be coming straight from work because she’s wearing a pair of royal blue pants and a matching blouse.
“Your hair.” She stops just short of where I’ve stopped to wait for her. “What are those pins and where can I get some?”
My hand trails over my messy bun. I pinned my hair up after Gaines left this morning. I didn’t have time to dry it completely, so I twisted it into a knot and used the two hairpins that used to belong to my Aunt Becky.
“They’re vintage.” I proudly display them as I bend my head forward to give her a clear view. “Do you like them?”